


Hyacinth Chateau

by tea_petty



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Erotica, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Hand Jobs, Kissing, Multi, Mystery, Religious Guilt, Romance, Sex, Sex Toys, Sex Work, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:20:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 112,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26401798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tea_petty/pseuds/tea_petty
Summary: As the community gets tangled up in a string of disappearances, one miss "Jane Doe" forges a new identity out of the passions she pursues with those around her.
Relationships: America (Hetalia)/Reader, Australia (Hetalia)/Reader, Austria/Hungary (Hetalia), Belarus/Japan (Hetalia), China (Hetalia)/Reader, China/Russia (Hetalia), Denmark/Norway (Hetalia), France (Hetalia)/Reader, Germany (Hetalia)/Reader, Hungary/Prussia (Hetalia), Japan (Hetalia)/Reader, North Italy (Hetalia)/Reader, North Italy/Prussia (Hetalia), Norway (Hetalia)/Reader, South Italy (Hetalia)/Reader, Spain (Hetalia)/Reader, Turkey (Hetalia)/Original Female Character(s), Ukraine (Hetalia)/Reader
Comments: 12
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to my tumblr; tea-pettiest

No longer, did the halls of Yeatlor make her nervous.

At first, this was not such the case. It wasn’t the house itself per se, with its abundance of fenestration, as neat at the outside of the house as the immaculate table sets she dined before each night and its high-reaching, side-gabled roof. By most measures, the house would’ve exceeded anyone’s expectations. It was big, grandly decorated – probably better than what she’d lived in before, though she couldn’t exactly confirm that for sure, what with the fog in her head.

Indeed, after five months of living at Yeatlor, she’d gotten reasonably familiar with the many turns, nooks, and crannies, inside of it. The walls were done in a pleasant blue that seemed to aid the natural light (remember, the aforementioned fenestration) in flooding the house, which gave it a somewhat cheery appearance, even on the dreariest of afternoons. 

Where the light couldn’t reach, Francis, the estate’s master and, minus the modest number of servants staffed, the only other inhabitant at Yeatlor, had a myriad of paintings he’d commissioned and collected through the years. This, she had learned within the first week or so of Francis having taken her in when he’d given her the tour.

After that, it had taken a few more awkward mornings on her own, with her having stumbled into the drawing room, late for breakfast as Francis sipped demurely at a cup of coffee from behind a newspaper.

Today, when she entered the dining room, Francis was doing exactly this, with a piece of bread that looked like it had been nibbled at, resting on a plate before him. He didn’t look up until she’d taken her seat, at which time he folded the paper neatly and set it aside.

“Good morning, Jane, _ma chère_.” 

She rose only to go to the hearth so she could make herself a spot of tea. Upon returning to the table, Francis was ready with the milk in hand, to pass it over. 

Clockwork – that was their morning routine, just like clockwork.

“Or is it still ‘Jane’?” His accent stretched the ‘i’s into ‘ee’s.

“Unless you have some other preference of what to call me.”

“You still don’t remember then?”

She shrugged; talk of her memories or lack thereof always soured her mood. 

Her life at Yeatlor had very little to vex her, which was more than what she could say about her life before, considering that she had absolutely nothing to say about it. The massive blank in her mind was like a giant blot of ink on the signature of a letter; who knew what had sent her or why?

“I don’t.”

Francis sighed and turned back to the paper, which was resting with the cover story up.

“’Jane’ it is, then.”

“Or ‘Janie’ for the particularly affectionate?” She was teasing now.

Francis made a face.

“Nicknames are dreadful. I wouldn’t do you the disservice of calling you anything other than your _proper_ name, thank you very much.” 

“We don’t know my _proper_ name,” Jane pointed out, and Francis scoffed.

He went back to picking at his toast, and it was then that Jane noticed the print in bold letters across the top; _VILLAINY DISPLAYED_.

“A bit of light reading?” 

Jane was staring plainly at the article, which also featured a drawing of a woman in a dress coming out of an alley, a macabre skull-faced figure prowling behind her, moments behind from pouncing.

Francis made a sound at the back of his throat and took a sip of his coffee.

“Someone else has gone missing.”

Jane felt a cold, clammy fist squeeze in her gut. 

She ignored this for now and took a bite - too big to be considered ladylike - of her bread.

“Another? That’s the second one this week.”

“Jane, _ma chère_ , please, don’t talk with your mouth full – but yes; it is quite sad.”

When Jane swallowed, she thought it went down like a stone.

“Scary, more like.” She met Francis’ eyes from across the corner of the table; he always sat at the head of the table, and she, to his immediate left. “Their families must be worried. I hope they find their way home safely.”

There was a beat of silence and Francis seemed to be studying her. When they were conversationally close like this, he could pick out the tension in her jaw and the stiffness of her movements.

“Yes, well-“

Just then, there was a knock at the drawing room doors. 

The lone footman at Yeatlor, Mihail, came in.

“Excuse me, Monsieur Bonnefoy, sir, Colonel Fernández and one Mr. Silva is here to see you.”

Francis and Jane looked at each other – the Colonel visiting, and so early?

“Very good – you may send them in.”

Mihail bowed before taking his leave and in walked the Colonel, a wide grin on his face. At once, Jane felt her lips quirked upward in what she hoped was a smile suited for polite society. Frankly, she thought it too early for such song and dance, but then again _she_ wasn’t a Colonel – at least not that she knew of.

“Francis!” He walked in, a broad grin on his face and Francis rose to his feet to greet him. 

“Antonio!” 

The two men welcomed each other into a hearty hug. 

Francis had meant it when he’d said he didn’t like nicknames. While she’d heard Mr. Silva refer to the Colonel affectionately as ‘Toni’ several times, Francis would’ve never done such a thing, despite having been one of Colonel Fernández’s oldest friends.

Mr. Silva followed behind, hanging back to give the two men room to connect. Also one to be left out of the grand reunion, Jane rose to greet Mr. Silva first and dipped into a small curtsy.

“Mr. Silva, how are you?”

“Miss Doe, it’s been difficult for Toni and me to adjust to life on land again, I think, but all in all, we can’t complain. And you, you look like you’re doing well.”

Jane smiled.

“I’m happy to hear of yours and the Colonel’s return.” 

She shot a meaningful look at Francis and Colonel Fernández, who were laughing at something one of them had just said. “And it looks like Mr. Bonnefoy is as well.”

As if cued, Francis and Colonel Fernández turned to Mr. Silva and Jane again. She dipped into another little curtsy for the Colonel. He surprised her however by reaching for her hand, upon which granted, he placed a chaste kiss to the back of it, bowing low.

“Miss Doe – I trust Francis is taking good care of you?”

Jane’s smile sweetened further, her cheeks warmed. 

His accent had always sort of reminded her of a cat’s purr – though perhaps without such a similar sense of innocence.

“Oh, yes Colonel, he’s been the utmost gentleman.”

“You’re sure?” Colonel Fernández shot her a wink before tossing a playful elbow Francis’ way. 

“Because I could always teach him a thing or to otherwise.”

Francis cut in now.

“Please! Between you, Gilbert, and I, it was always me who knew best how to treat a lady.”

From beside her, Mr. Silva sighed and she could tell then that this banter was something of a habit between the men, stretching before that of when ‘Jane’ had shown up at Yeatlor.

“Speaking of which! You must want to know why we’ve come today. I’m sorry if João and I disturbed your breakfast –“ 

“No, no, nothing like that-“

“-but, we’ve come to tell you the news; Gil,” Colonel Fernández looked from Francis to Jane then, “that is, Mr. Beilschmidt, will be hosting a ball in two days’ time.”

A ball! Jane couldn’t control her face then, pleasant surprise lifted her brow.

“A ball?”

Francis rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“Gilbert was never the type to host balls – are you sure this wasn’t Ludwig’s doing?”

Colonel Fernández laughed.

“ _Si_ , quite sure. Gilbert told me himself when João and I called on him the week last. His father had been putting pressure on him to marry before he passed and now that it’s happened and he’s inheriting the estate, he seems to want to honor that wish.”

“Hm. Looking for a wife – aren’t we all?”

Jane had to consciously refrain from letting out a little snort of her own; searching for a wife was like snorting – not at all ladylike.

“Antonio, _mon ami_ , if Gilbert is, in fact, looking for a wife, then I fail to see why he wants _me_ to attend the ball.”

The Colonel laughed again.

“Francis – do you forget the young, agreeable, _eligible_ woman you have in your charge?”

Jane stiffened. Nobody had asked for her opinion, but then again, she didn’t think anyone had to when it was her livelihood and future they were so flagrantly discussing.

“Of course, don’t mind me – so long as _Mr. Beilschmidt_ is finally ready to be married, it matters not what _I_ think.”

It had certainly sounded more venomous in her head, though Francis and the Colonel had caught her meaning well enough.

Francis quirked an eyebrow at her.

“Jane, please.”

Antonio was still grinning.

“Eligible indeed, Francis. Miss Doe should certainly come to the ball and at least meet Gilbert.”

-

The Colonel and Mr. Silva had left shortly after and Francis wasted no time in calling for the seamstress in his hire to help fit Jane for a dress for the ball. She was embarrassed and half feared the heat itching beneath her skin might’ve dissolved the white muslin that floated around her as the tailor sewed and snipped, pinned, and surveyed her.

“Is this really necessary?” she asked, grateful he was at least sitting behind her where she didn’t have to make a constant effort to skirt his gaze.

She hadn’t expected Francis to linger for the fitting and so she was embarrassed, both for his graciousness in gifting her a new gown and in what he could’ve seen that prompted him to stay.

“This could be exciting, no? Even if Gilbert isn’t to your liking, you could very well meet other potential suitors there.”

Francis was leaning back in a chair against the wall behind her, his ankle resting at his knee in repose. His elbow was perched at the arm of the chair, his chin resting in the palm of his hand as he watched the hummingbird movements of the seamstress.

“Oh, but Francis, can’t I just live with you forever?”

Francis didn’t need to see her face to hear the smile in her voice. He chuckled.

“Then, are we to be wed?”

“Us marrying would at least stop those nasty rumors.”

At this, Francis leaned forward in his seat. Now, both feet were on the ground.

“ _Ma chère_ , what rumors could you mean?”

There was a snip of finality from the woman stooped at Jane’s feet before she straightened up.

“Miss Doe, you’re finished.”

Jane looked down at herself; the gown was impeccable, the seamstress had done a splendid job, and she made sure to tell her so. A silly fluttering of nervousness arose in her though, as it did in silly girls with their silly insecurities. Did she do such a gown justice? 

Francis rose to his feet.

“Mm. _C’est parfait_. The dress and you in it. Gilbert would be a fool not to propose to you then and there.”

Jane’s cheeks burned as the seamstress took her hasty and discrete leave. She turned to face the man.

“Anyway – you must know of your reputation. You do, don’t you?”

Francis hesitated for a few moments and Jane realized then, it was one of the very few times she’d seen him speechless. When he spoke again, the words were deliberate and careful, like horses navigating pitted terrain.

“I know…that people say things of me, though I prefer not to pay such things any mind.” He was watching her, studying her. He ventured a few steps closer and his gaze swept over her gown again. “I would hope you wouldn’t pay them any mind either.”

Jane ran her fingers through her hair, the gesture providing some modicum of distraction – just enough so that she felt comfortable teasing him. She felt disheveled; she wished that they were having this conversation when she was ready for the ball, her hair twisted in an elegant up-do where she felt elegant and gentile and not like a stray with gruel for brains that some wealthy benefactor had taken pity on.

“Well, I try not to,” she said matter-of-factly. “But they say that you bring a different woman to bed each night – some maidens, some married.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Francis grimace.

“And all of that happens behind my back – not your wife, but a woman you live most improperly with.”

When she looked up again, her hands stilling, her distraction used up, Francis was standing much closer now; a hairsbreadth too close than what would’ve been decent. She watched as he took yet another step closer and she was struck by how much prettier he was up close; his cherub-like curls and salient, blue eyes fitted on a man who'd seen the world and tucked it into his chest like his heart's pearl.

She found herself leaning closer to him. Francis noticed this himself and his eyes narrowed to half-masts, the hint of a smile at his lips, which were just inches from her.

“And what about you? Do you think me so improper?”

Jane wanted to answer, but the words were lodged in her throat like a bone. She labored over this for a few agonizing moments, and then there was a sharp rap at the door, and both she and Francis stepped back.

“ _Quoi?_ What is it?” he asked sharply, evidently as startled as Jane had been.

Mihail was back, this time with a silver platter with two pieces of parchment resting on it, each tied shut with a luxurious red ribbon.

“Letters for both you and Miss Doe.”

“From who?”

“Mr. Beilschmidt; invitations for the ball in two days.”

-

The next day, Francis had to run to town for some errands and so they took the carriage just as the sky had started to spatter a little. By the time they arrived, the rains had come and go, the ground was sodden, and she was ever so grateful for Francis’ steadying hand as he helped her out. 

Mihail had accompanied them, Francis’ packages in his arms.

Jane tucked her arm into Francis’ and he led their little troupe inside the inn, which doubled as the postmaster.

“Now, Jane, _ma chère,_ I’ll be taking care of some business – wait right here, won’t you? When I’m back, we can stop and get some chocolate as a treat, hm?”

“Yes Francis, I’ll be here.”

He and Mihail were only a few feet away, though the inn was still busy enough, what with those seeking shelter from the rain and others running such errands, that even by herself (and not really so) she had started to get a little overwhelmed. 

She scanned the interior, spotting an opening along a column where she might perhaps, eke out a chunk of personal space for herself while she waited for her traveling companions. People bustled around her in the tight space, all with places to go, money to spend or earn, and matters that seemed a great deal more important than her.

She felt small like a mouse, and she hoped, just as unnoticed, as she backed her way through the bustle to the small, unvacated corner. 

Her journey at first went better than she’d anticipated; save for a few hurried passersby grazing her cloak, nobody bothered her. 

She had managed to convince herself that she would certainly reach safety unscathed; until she’d felt a sturdy bump at her back and heard said bump grunt out a response.

Jane turned and found herself nose to nose with another man, who seemed to have had a similar idea to her.

“Pardon me,” she dipped into a curtsy.

The man seemed to hesitate for a moment, still enduring the surprise at having suddenly found himself in the acquaintanceship of her, before he ducked into a clumsy, little bow of his own.

“No, Miss, the transgression is mine.”

Jane realized that save for an apology, she really didn’t have much to say to him. After that, a second realization hit her; he was rather handsome.

The man had looked out at the crowd again with a slight frown. This man looked too big for the room, like a giant thrust into a dwarf’s house. He fit, sure enough, but only by folding himself inward and stifling his limbs natural tendency to rest in two different cities at once; something the tight press of the crowd didn’t allow for today.

A man who looked to be in a big hurry charged through the crowd, bulleting through the crush of people. Jane was still looking at the first man, marveling at his discomfort and how it seemed to tower – she didn’t see the other one. 

The stranger she’d bumped into had though; one arm wrapped around her and herded her out of the way.

Jane could feel the firmness of him through his thick, woolen coat. Her face warmed as she found her hands braced against his chest.

“Sorry about that again.” The corner of his mouth twitched.

“No, ah- I should be, uh-“

It was hard to think; the crowd was much too thick here, that paired with the humidity from the rain made it all too warm and confused. 

She tried to take a deep breath and found her lungs had calcified. 

The man seemed to catch her meaning all the same.

“It’s quite alright Miss…”

“Jane – just Jane, please.”

While her ‘surname’ may have been a cute joke for Francis and such others who knew of the circumstances that had brought her to Yeatlor, to the common man, it must’ve seemed shifty right off the bat. Jane Doe wasn’t anyone real until she stopped being Jane Doe – and someone who wasn’t real could have nothing of substance to offer anyone.

He was still holding onto her; and both of them seemed to forget this. She tried to stick out a hand anyway for him to shake. He looked at it dumbly, as if forgetting he could let go and shake it.

“Jane?”

Francis’ voice cut through the crowd and then he appeared with Mihail, the packages gone.

“Ah, Francis!”

She was embarrassed but she couldn’t place why. 

The other man had looked even more uncomfortable if that was even possible. Now there was a tendon at his jaw leaping out as if he were enduring someone jabbing needles under his skin.

His arm slipped from her.

Francis was looking from her to the man, then back to her, one brow cocked, his lips drawn into a tight smile. 

“I’ve been gone all of five minutes, and it seems you’ve made a new friend.” He turned to the man. “And your name, Monsieur?”

“Kirkland, good sir. Jett Kirkland.”

Francis’ eyebrows flew up at this.

“Kirkland, you say?”

“That’s right.”

Now it was time for Jane to send the inquisitive stares; she’d never once heard of a Kirkland, at least not in the past five months.

“And you wouldn’t happen to know an Arthur, would you?”

“Aye, I do, sir. Arthur Kirkland is my half-brother.”

The silence that fell next was even more uncomfortable than navigating the room, which despite Jane having watched a seemingly endless flow of people heading out, seemed no less empty.

“I see. And is he…well?”

Jett swallowed.

“He’s not sick, sir.”

“I see. And your…niece?”

“Healthy, sir, and two years old the next fortnight.”

“Good, good.”

The air seemed to leave Francis on the last word. More of that thick, insufferable silence, more suffocating than the room.

“Then, we should be going.”

Jett bowed again.

“Yes sir, it was nice to meet you Mr.-“

Francis hesitated and Jane made a mental note to ask him about that later, as well as this ‘Arthur’ fellow.

“Bonnefoy.”

“Right, Mr. Bonnefoy.” Jett turned to Jane then. “And you, Miss…Miss. Jane.”

Jane curtsied.

“And you, Mr. Kirkland,” she smiled at him, soft and secret, pretending that Francis didn’t see, but enjoying that she knew he had.

Jett’s face pinkened slightly.

“Let’s be off, Jane.”

Francis took Jane’s arm, straightening her from her curtsy and guiding it through his. His touch was searing and with firmness, she hadn’t ever felt Francis use with her before. 

Still though, it was on Jett she let her eyes linger as Francis followed Mihail, leading them out of the inn, and back out into the gray afternoon.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The sky was leaking now with a non-committal drizzle, the tap of rain on the rooftops like a sluggish clock. Indeed, the world did seem to turn slower like this; they’d only been out for maybe an hour and a half, and already Jane felt like she could retire for the day. Through the misty main street, Francis led Mihail and Jane, his stride quick with purpose, and Jane thought, perhaps his temper as well.

“Where are we off to now?” 

The sweet shop was in the opposite direction; chocolate was probably the last thing on Francis’ mind.

“Another errand,” he replied without looking back. “I’ve got business with Yao Wang – after tonight, we’re going to be sorely lacking in our supplies of ginger, saffron, and turmeric.”

Jane struggled to keep up with his severe pace. She paused briefly to pick up her skirts before running after him in a manner that probably had the stray governess who saw her shaking their heads sternly to themselves.

“We could just…use the spices with more moderation,” Jane suggested.

This was not a comment on the food, which she rather liked; truly, her mind was still mostly on the chocolate promised at the inn – and a little bit on Jett Kirkland as well.

Francis came to a sudden stop and Jane found herself coming dangerously close to face-planting into his chest as he whirled around to face her, his cloak fanning out around him like a dark parasol. Francis looked offended.

“What?”

“I was just teasing,” Jane said hastily. 

Francis quirked an eyebrow into a suspicious look but ultimately decided not to venture down whatever manic rabbit hole they’d almost gone down.

“Don’t be silly Jane, I’ve been using Yao’s services for years – he’s as quick as they come. It’ll be good for you to meet him too; you can never know too many good people.”

“Then after I meet Mr. Wang, I’ll know exactly one,” Jane chirped with a bright smile.

Francis shot her another sharp look.

“Oh? And what about Monsieur Kirkland; you seemed to think him rather… _good_.”

Now it was Jane’s turn to have a temper.

“I don’t know what I could’ve done to give you that impression,” she sniffed. “I haven’t done a thing for the man.”

The rain started to pick up, the sleepy tap winding up like the drum of fingers against the table. It seemed Francis and Jane weren’t the only ones whose patience was wearing thin. 

Francis slipped one of Jane’s arms through his, tugging her closer to his side.

“Come now, Jane, _ma chère,_ let us not just stand around in the rain and catch our deaths.” 

His pace picked up again with Francis all but dragging her down the street.

Cold droplets spattered at her skin and nestled in her hair. She blinked them away as they caught at her lashes, a few stray ones missing her traveling cloak and penetrating the thin material of her dress. Francis felt almost feverishly hot against her in comparison to the chill hovering at her skin and it seemed to spurn a similar restless heat beneath her own. 

She thought back to the day before when she’d been fitted for a gown. She thought of being close to Francis and the details she picked out; the more she looked the more she saw. Here, her hand was doing the seeing for her; the firm muscle beneath his fine clothes, the safety in his grasp – something that was still very new to her, despite how he’d already welcomed her into the safety of his home.

She swallowed and her throat felt scratchy and dry as well.

“Anyway, it’s useless to pretend around me,” she looked at him just in time to catch his wink. “I could pick up the trip of a heart like a dog can pick up a scent.”

At this, she felt suddenly self-conscious. Of course, such a thing could hardly be true. She found herself using her free hand to tuck her cloak more tightly around herself anyway.

“You would’ve done something if you'd had the chance,” Francis continued. “That is if I’d _given_ you the chance.”

Jane's cheeks burned indignantly - too much for her to confidently deny what he said. She wanted to say something, anything to defend her dignity, but she had nothing and so the opportunity slipped away.

“Ah, here we are.”

They turned towards the Apothecary, the wooden sign swinging and wet, making the little image of a vial on it gleam. 

“An Apothecary? I thought you were here to get spices.”

Francis’ hand came down on her arm soothingly.

“Yao is a man of many trades, _ma chère,_ his business is business.”

They took cover under the overhang in front of the shop, and it was then that Jane noticed a boy hanging around outside, peeking in through the shuttered windows with something sizable in his arms.

“Is that his son?” Jane asked.

“I do not think so; Yao is unwed.” Francis murmured back to her before clearing his throat. Then, more loudly, he addressed the boy. “Can we be of some assistance to you, _Petit-Monsieur_?”

At the sound of Francis’ voice, the boy's shoulder jumped from beneath his coat. He spun around, looking inherently a little guilty, the way young boys did in their haste. 

“I’m supposed to be here,” he announced with as much authority as he could muster, his dark eyes, wide.

Francis chuckled.

“I see. You are also looking for Monsieur Wang too then?”

The boy nodded emphatically. 

“My mother sent me to give him this cake that she made here.” 

Jane looked to the parcel in his arms, and found it indeed, to be a basket with a piece of cloth folded neatly over it.

“I am Monsieur Bonnefoy, and these are my traveling companions, Mademoiselle Doe and Monsieur Kerzhakov.”

Mihail gave a little bow.

“How do you do?”

Jane smiled and waved her fingers.

The boy watched them, still looking a little suspicious. 

He tucked the basket a more securely under his arm.

“I’m Yong Soo. Mother sent me with this to thank Mr. Wang for making papa well again, but I don’t think he’s home.”

“Hm, is that so?”

Francis peered at the front of the shop again; the windows were shuttered and the door shut tight. 

“Have you tried ringing the bell?”

“I have.”

“It’s not like him to shut down so early in the day,” Francis said, seeming to talk to no one in particular then. He turned to Yong Soo and flashed him a smile. “If you’ll allow me, _Petit-Monsieur_ , I shall have a go at finding Monsieur Wang, yes?”

Yong Soo nodded and everyone watched as Francis left them by the front door, following the front of the shop to the corner before dipping into a narrow alley beside it. They followed just close enough to keep him in their line of sight.

Lo’ and behold, there was another window here, staring straight into the siding of the building next door. Jane inwardly praised the insensibilities of whoever had designed such a layout. 

The window was too high for Yong Soo to reach, though Francis could peek in just fine – and he did.

This window seemed to lack the closed-off quality of the ones in the front. Francis took one look in, his brow lifting in response to whatever he saw, and then he was turning abruptly back to them, striding with similar haste as before.

“Monsieur Wang appears to be, _ah_ -“ Francis chuckled again, ducking his head like he’d been told a juicy bit of gossip. “- _preoccupied_. I’m sure if we give him a minute, he’ll be ready to attend to us.”

They returned to waiting in front of the door, Yong Soo periodically peeking in between the slats of the shutters to see if Mr. Wang had emerged yet. Jane stared out from under the overhang, watching as the rain picked up again into a torrent. In the distance, the sky rumbled. Jane felt like she was listening to a roar from inside the belly of the beast.

“Then, back to what we were speaking of before,” Francis sidled up to her.

Jane felt the corner of her mouth twitch in annoyance.

“What about it?”

“For certain, Monsieur Kirkland may have caught your fancy today, but what about Gilbert?”

“What _about_ G- Mr. Beilschmidt?”

“ _Ma chère,_ you mustn’t treat him so uncivilly at the ball tomorrow.”

“And I won’t,” she said resolutely, her arms folding over her chest. “But I fail to see how that concerns Mr. Kirkland.”

“Please – don’t misunderstand; Monsieur Kirkland is known to be a kind fellow around these parts – he’s quite handsome too, but you must…” he sighed, and when Jane looked at him, she was startled to see that Francis looked like he’d suddenly aged several, greedy years. “…exercise caution with Kirklands. 

Trust me on that.”

Jane was suddenly fraught with the urge to slip her arm through his again and have him near, she withstood this urge though, with the stiff upper lip of a militia officer.

“I fail to see why I should ever see Mr. Kirkland again anyway.”

She had intended to put him at ease, but Francis only grimaced.

“Will he be attending the ball?”

Jane hesitated.

“He will be, sir,” Mihail interjected with a nod.

Jane and Francis looked at each other. His eyes were unreadable.

He sighed and went to the door once more, agitation clear in the tautness of his body. He rapped sharply at it, joining Yong Soo in peeking through the window.

“Yao! Are you finished yet?”

There was another beat of silence before a thud could be heard inside, followed by the sound of harried, heavy footsteps, muddled further by a steadier, heavier gait behind.

The click and rattle inside of the door’s lock could be heard, and then the door opened to reveal a man with dark eyes like Yong Soo’s, his hair worn longer than Francis'. It reminded Jane a bit of silk in its luster, which was plenty observable even with how he pulled it back. It held the same dark majesty of his eyes – Francis’ opposite in appearance, but his equal in attractiveness. 

Jane thought this whole-heartedly, even with his shirt wrinkled and his necktie undone. His face was alight like he’d just undergone something trying or was stricken with fever. 

Francis chuckled, his mood seemingly improved at the sight of Mr. Wang in his current state.

“Yao! You aren’t decent. Take your time, _mon ami_ , we can wait a while longer.”

“Please Francis, you sounded like you were about to break my door down. If you’d just waited a bit longer, I would’ve been _completely_ decent.”

“Forgive me, I had expected you to be already dressed so late in the morning.”

Yao stepped aside to let them in, and when Jane caught his eye, he looked away, his hand reaching up to fiddle with the loose ends of his necktie.

Inside, the Apothecary took up the main front room, the back wall lined neatly with vials all containing different pills and concoctions, tins and jars with their labels embossed on them in a neat script. It smelled strongly medicinal; enough to make Jane’s stomach flip. She kept close to the walls and moved slowly, not wanting to disturb the careful order of the shop. Francis and Mihail had gone to the counter that Mr. Wang was standing behind, a pair of spectacles now perched on his nose.

Jane went to go join them and was only stopped by another sound coming from one of the backrooms. When she turned towards the sound, she found another man looming in the doorway, his figure hulking in the confined space, much like Jett’s was. He was fixing his topper on his head with one hand, and stuffing something into his coat pocket with the other; something small and wrapped in a cloth.

“Thank you very much for the plaister, Mr. Wang.”

Mr. Wang startled at the sound of this man’s voice as if having temporarily forgotten that he was there. A new shade of pink blossomed at his cheeks.

“Yes, yes,” he cleared his throat. “Very good, Mr. Braginsky. You’d better be off now.”

The man who must’ve been Mr. Braginsky gave a little bow before taking his leave.

Francis seemed to study the two men, a knowing look on his face. In fact, he seemed to be watching something rather amusing, and Jane suddenly felt like she was missing something. She looked between Mr. Braginsky’s retreating figure through the window, and Mr. Wang who was rifling through a cupboard beneath the counter. She was perplexed at what had transpired; she yearned to see what Francis had seen.

When Yao rose from behind the counter again, he had procured a small, leather book.

“Then Francis, I trust the nature of our business is spices?”

Yong Soo was at the counter too and he stamped his foot.

“Now wait here Mr. Wang – I was here and as such, I feel justified in asking that _my_ business be taken care of first.”

Yao sighed and turned to the boy.

“Yong Soo, manners.”

Francis laughed good-naturedly though.

“Of course – my sincerest apologies, _Petit-Monsieur_.”

Yao leaned on the counter, peering over to eye what was in Yong Soo’s arms.

“Now, what is the nature of your business then?”

Yong Soo set the basket on the counter.

“Mother sent me with this cake, and I’ve been waiting around all morning to give it to you.”

At this, Yao’s face seemed to soften a bit.

“I see. Then you have my thanks. That was very kind of her, and you, for that matter.” 

Mr. Wang turned to the back wall and even though she couldn’t see his face, Jane knew he was running through his extensive inventory. At last, he seemed to find what he was looking for. Mr. Wang went to one of the shelves lined front to back with shiny tins. 

Fetching one, he adjusted his spectacles and studied it once more, to ensure it was in fact, what he was looking for. 

He handed it to Yong Soo.

“Here, take this back for you and your family. There’s a nip in the air, and I fear that sickness will come with it.”

A wide smile split across Yong Soo’s face as he accepted the tin from Yao, his cross mood cured as surely as any future afflictions might be, by Mr. Wang.

“Thank you!” He shoved the tin in his coat pocket and started heading towards the door. “Thank you very much! Mother will be pleased.”

“Well, if she has any excess of seed cakes again, she knows where to find me.”

Yong Soo was out the door and for a moment, Jane fretted; the rain was still coming down with righteous fury outside. She spotted the dark blue of his coat as he streaked past the window, and then, she could worry no more.

“The _Petit-Monsieur_ looks to be a quick, young man.”

Mr. Wang was flipping the book open, and Jane saw then that it was a leger.

“Indeed, he is. Right then, your order-“

Jane turned to Francis, leaning on the counter herself. 

“Shall we pick some other things up too? Some poultices or something?” She peered at Mr. Wang out of the corner of her eye. “It seems a waste of Mr. Wang’s talents to only ask spices of him.”

Francis raised an eyebrow.

“Did you plan on falling ill anytime soon, Jane?”

“I shouldn’t fear it, what with Mr. Wang and his _great many deal of skills_ , around.

Mr. Wang flushed again and cleared his throat, adjusting his spectacles though they were already fixed firmly at the bridge of his straight nose.

“Please, it’s all just numbers.”

“Lord knows _I_ have no head for them.” 

Mr. Wang turned back to Francis and Mihail.

“You can pick what you want and their quantity. I’ll have them delivered to the usual address.”

“Excellent, thank you.”

Francis and Mihail pulled the book closer; Mr. Wang already had a quill and ink set up at the counter for convenience. With their heads bowed together over the leger, Jane was effectively free to roam where she wanted in the immediate vicinity; Francis would’ve been too busy with his affairs to make sure she was minding her manners.

She watched as Yao went over to the far side of the room, straightening the already immaculate bookshelves, tidying up for the sake of fussing over that of which he built with his own hands. Jane wandered over to where he was, her hands trailing inquisitively along the shelves and the surfaces of tables as she did so.

“Mr. Wang,” she announced when she was behind him. 

She couldn’t lie, least of all to herself; she liked seeing the way his shoulders jumped at the sound of her voice.

Mr. Wang straightened up and cleared his throat once more. He seemed to wait a moment, his shoulders relaxing as he took a breath before he turned to her.

“Miss…”

“Doe.”

“I see,” Mr. Wang looked at her with a quizzical brow, as if he hadn’t quite seen after all. “Then, Miss Doe, is there something I should be able to help you with?”

“That depends,” she stepped around him to admire what he’d been attending to. There were a few worn looking books, and that was it. “Do you have a cure for boredom?”

His face was expressionless as he answered.

“For an idle mind, I find reading to be a preferable activity.”

Jane peered more closely at his books. 

“-but not here,” Mr. Wang added hastily.

Jane straightened up, her brow raised.

“Oh.”

A misplaced sort of quiet fell between then. Mr. Wang bowed in a way that told her he didn’t really want to before heading off to another corner of the Apothecary to ‘straighten up.’ Again, Jane followed him, tailing far enough behind so as to not agitate him into leaving the vicinity.

“How many businesses do you have?”

Mr. Wang looked back at her. When he froze, she froze. When he returned to what he was doing, she continued to follow, ever vigilantly.

“Three.”

Jane made a sound at the back of her throat and there was a loud noise as a porcelain lid dropped to the floor. Both Mr. Wang and Jane jumped at the sound; Francis and Mihail looked up from the book at the disturbance.

“My apologies; I must be out of sorts today.”

When Francis and Mihail turned their attention back to the book, Mr. Wang sent a sharp glare back towards Jane.

“Then, the Apothecary, spices, and…?” she prompted in an innocent voice.

Mr. Wang shook his head and turned back to the shelves, fiddling with his wares with more care.

“And general goods.”

“Do you like them all equally?”

Mr. Wang let out a scoff.

“It matters not what I like; work is work.” He paused for a moment as he moved to the next shelf. “But yes, I’m fortunate enough to enjoy my work.”

Jane continued to tail him, noting that he didn’t seem to notice when she drew a few paces closer.

“Do you plan to have more businesses?”

At the sound of her voice just behind him, Mr. Wang straightened up, bumping his head against the shelf in his hurry. He emerged rubbing at the sore spot, his eyes screwed shut in pain.

“ _Aiyah_ , Miss Doe, please. If there’s nothing I might assist you with, then I ask that you leave me to my work, for I _am_ still working.”

Jane winced at his words, her lips turning into a frown.

“My apologies Mr. Wang,” she dipped into a deep curtsy. “I truly didn’t mean to bother you so.”

Her hands came up by her waist, fingers fidgeting with each other. Mr. Wang watched her and his brow furrowed. Her eyes were shining and her lower lip seemed to tremble slightly.

Mr. Wang sighed and removed his spectacles, running a hand over his face.

“Miss Doe, please, it’s I who should be apologizing.”

“No, no, I didn’t wish to trouble-“

Mr. Wang reached forward and surprised them both by catching her hands in his. This was dangerous territory; if Francis had spotted him, clothes askew with his hands on a woman like so, it would look a scandalous sight. 

Her skin was soft though; quite so. Mr. Wang couldn’t bring himself to tear his hands away, especially not when he found her to be holding him too.

“You’re no trouble, Miss Doe. I shouldn’t have lost my temper – not with anyone, but _especially_ not with a lady.”

She peered up at him and it was then, he noticed the thick fringe of lashes framing her eyes, which still shown.

“Truly? You mean it.”

“I do,” Mr. Wang took a step back, one hand still at hers as he searched the shelves he’d just tidied. “And to make up for my unsightly behavior, please,” he paused, eyes searching until he found what he’d been looking for. “Let me make it up to you with this token – both of my sincerest apologies and of my gratitude in having met your acquaintance.”

In his hand was a small, delicate-looking bottle of perfume.

Jane’s heart soared as Mr. Wang folded it into her hands.

“Oh, Mr. Wang!” she gushed and his face reddened again. “Goodness, you really _do_ have such a head for business.”

Her gaze flicked downwards to the column of his throat and at once an uncertainness stirred inside of him – among something else that rang with tremulous expectancy.

Jane set the perfume bottle on the shelf momentarily so she could free her hands for his collar, where his still neglected necktie was.

“A head for business, indeed, but not for neckties, it would seem,” she teased. 

Her hands went through the motions of retying it nimbly while inside Mr. Wang, a war raged.

From this proximity, her scent wafted around him – and he could personally attest, she had no need for perfume. He could count her eyelashes and catch glimpses of the white crescent moons of her nails. He could watch the focus that sharpened her eyes without stifling their shine. The warmth that rolled off her skin, suffused to his the way fog rolled over the moor. 

He felt something brewing in him indeed – things that would’ve made his state of dress and how they’d found him earlier seem _most_ proper.

Mr. Wang had counted and recounted her eyelashes by the time she’d finished, and when she stepped back and looked at him, she laughed. The sound was devastating.

“Oh, Mr. Wang, your face is quite red; are you feeling well?”

“I-“

A hand had reached up, feeling at the knot at the base of his throat. Jane was still smiling, the perfume back in her hands.

Mr. Wang needed to say something, anything, really.

Someone cleared their throat and both Jane and Mr. Wang looked in the direction of the sound.

Francis stood a few feet away, watching them with the book in hand.

“My, Yao, your necktie has appeared to have fixed itself.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Yes, well, I-I…My-“

Francis gave the book a once over.

“Yes, Monsieur, I think you’ll find what you need in here.”

Mr. Wang took the book from Francis’ outstretched hand.

“Yes, quite so; thank you, Francis.” 

His voice was weak.

“Then, if all is settled, we should be off.” Francis turned to Jane. “Jane, _allons-y_.”

Jane seemed unfazed, both by Francis’ reaction and Mr. Wang’s. She dipped into a curtsy, the playful quirk of her smile never faltering at those lips, like petals in full bloom.

“Thank you, Mr. Wang, you’ve been a gracious host.”

“Right. Off you go.”

His face had taken on a sickly pallor.

Francis led the group out the door without a second look towards Mr. Wang, and as Jane and Mihail followed, Mr. Wang trailed after, stopping at the doorway, as if it kept him.

“Take care now, make sure you’re in by dark. And stick with your chaperones – I’m talking to _you_ , Miss Doe.” 

The ride back to Yeatlor took just under an hour, and though Jane had been warming up to the idea of retiring to her room for a bit to read before dinner, Francis made it clear as soon as they dismounted the carriage, that he had other ideas.

He barely broke stride as his boots hit the ground.

“Jane, _ma chère_ , get ready for dinner – our guests will be here soon. I have to oversee the kitchen staff.”

“ _Guests_?”

She was still standing dumbly by the carriage, her body stubborn in its exhaustion and her mind in shock at this revelation. 

Francis looked back at her from over his shoulder. He was never one to look impatient in front of others; the closest he came was a barely perceptible tightening at the corner of his mouth.

“Yes, _ma chère._ Guests – the people who are to dine with us.”

Her endearment was popping up in his speech more and more; Francis’ patience was wearing thin. Jane still had a quizzical look to her brow.

“I have to ask – what _did_ you think I meant when I said ‘we’d have a shortage of ingredients after tonight’?”

She thought for a moment, and Francis crossed his arms over his chest. He could feel the seconds slip by like sand through an hourglass.

“I thought we’d be having a particularly flavorful dinner, just the two of us?”

Francis watched her for a few moments, his face blank.

“Jane?”

“Yes?”

“Please go and get ready for dinner.”

She trailed Francis into the house, moving slowly, almost spitefully so as she climbed the stairs up to her room. ‘Get ready’ he said as if it were simple. She was already dressed though, wasn’t she? What did it mean, to get ready for dinner? 

Jane’s first guess would’ve been to split the difference between her day clothes and what she was wearing to the ball – but what _was_ that midpoint?

They scarcely entertained and because so often it was just she and Francis dining together, she had been allowed to shirk the formality of donning an evening gown, in addition to morning and walking gowns. What the devil was an evening gown _supposed_ to look like?

Jane was thinking all of these things, each one getting more and more mutinous the nearer she drew to her bedroom. She was in an awful temper by the time she stepped into her personal quarters – which felt a lot less personal what with the maid in there.

“Charlotte?”

One of the only maids at Yeatlor, Charlotte was the one who helped Jane dress each morning, and undress each night. Charlotte curtsied.

“Miss Doe, Mr. Bonnefoy sent me up here to help you dress for this evening.”

“He did, did he?”

“He seemed to think you confused on the matter.”

Jane felt her temper flare in her, but she smushed it down inside of herself and sent the most agreeable smile she could muster toward Charlotte.

“That was… _kind_ of him. Thank you, Charlotte.”

And really, Jane was most grateful. Charlotte took whatever worry Jane had accumulated from the foot of the carriage to her bedroom and dispelled it with one seemingly magical wave of her hand (and of course, the procuration of Jane’s evening gown, which had been hiding in her closet, untouched.)

The evening drew closer to dinner time, and Jane watched her reflection in the vanity mirror. Now that she was looking at an evening gown, she thought she understood. 

The flowy material with the ruffled sleeves and chiffon cinch at the bust was reminiscent of a nightgown, while the champaign color and embroidered details at the hem, reminded her of the stars.

By the time she was descending the stairs en route to the dining room, it was as if Jane's earlier temper never existed. 

She felt like an evening woman, luxurious and elegant, in her evening gown, strolling through a house, the windows beacons of light in the all-encompassing dark outside, as friends gathered for an intimate, evening meal.

The dining room was still being set; if dinner itself was not ready, that meant that Francis was still entertaining in the drawing room.

As Jane made her way there, she could pick up the sounds of men's voices, both loud and boisterous. The sorts of men who were often the main entertainment during dinner conversations, Jane suspected.

The door was already open, and so Jane managed to slip in without disrupting whatever the two men were saying, the taller one clapping a hand heartily across the shoulders of the shorter one.

“Feliciano, truly sir, you’re too trusting of others. That’s okay here in the valley, but in town?” 

The taller man shook his head chastisingly. The man under his arm gave a sheepish grin.

“Mr. Adnan, perhaps you’re too quick to assume the worst of people. From my experience, the world is all very well and good, so long as _you’re_ well and good first.”

A third man was hanging at the fringe of where the men had gathered by the fireplace, watching from the periphery like Francis. The two brunettes in the room, with the fire highlighting the brown in their skin, stood right before the hearth. Francis and the other man looked on from the creeping shadows in the room, the blue of their eyes accentuating the blue the walls had lost in the dying hours of the day.

Francis caught the fluttering of movement out of his peripheral vision, as Jane slipped in, quiet like a cat.

“Ah! There you are!” 

The other three men looked in the direction Francis was, that was, at Jane. Immediately, she felt her cheeks warm, and out of instinct, one foot stepped back as if she were about to backtrack out of the room.

“Jane, _ma chère,_ come here and greet our guests.”

She hesitated, the sudden onslaught of attention making her uncharacteristically skittish. It would've been worse if she made Francis call to her again though, so she crossed the room, her skin warming as she neared the fire and under the curious scrutiny of Francis’ guests.

“Now, this is Monsieur Adnan and Monsieur Bondevik – both good friends of mine that live in the valley.”

The taller man and the quiet blonde bowed to her, which she returned with a curtsy.

“And here is Monsieur Vargas. He’s moved here recently to assume an apprenticeship under Monsieur Edelstein, who you’ll meet tomorrow at the ball.”

Mr. Vargas – the one Mr. Adnan had referred to as Feliciano – surprised Jane by taking her hand and greeting her with a chaste kiss to the back of it.

Her cheeks warmed intensely – she was sure it was noticeable.

“ _Ciao bella_ , Miss Doe, Mr. Bonnefoy has said so many great things about you, though even his praise couldn't have prepared me for such beauty.”

Jane recognized such inflated, groundless flattery when she saw it, though that did not mean she was immune. Her cheeks warmed.

“Mr. Vargas,” she returned, a little shyly. “It’s my pleasure.”

“No, no, the pleasure is completely mine – please, call me Feliciano and consider us dear friends from now on.”

He grinned and she couldn’t help herself. She ducked her head, biting back a giggle.

Francis shot Feliciano an affectionate glare.

“Yes, of course, she’s charmed – we all are. Now, as I was saying…”

Jane melted into the background from then on, standing at the fringe of the room, near Mr. Bondevik and watching as Francis and Mr. Adnan went back and forth. Mr. Bondevik, she noticed, was rather quiet. On the occasion where Feliciano caught her eye, he sent her a wink.

Jane was incredibly bored; they talked mostly of work and finances, and a bit of Feliciano having just moved to the valley. 

She tuned most of it out, and when Mihail finally came to announce they could start seating for dinner, it was a welcome release from the sweltering monotony of the drawing room.

Francis went first, leading Mr. Adnan and Feliciano to the dining room. Mr. Bondevik and Jane both moved to follow close behind, though the former got a bit further than she did.

As soon as Jane turned, she felt a tug from behind her.

She turned her head to look and saw that her sash was caught in the drawer of a cabinet she’d been standing against. 

She gave her sash a light tug, but it was still shut firmly in the drawer.

“Are you coming?” 

A voice that was startlingly close made her shoulders jump. 

Jane looked back towards the door and found Mr. Bondevik waiting, his eyes glancing off light from the fire. 

She smiled in a way she thought was reassuring.

“I am, I’m just caught at the moment.”

“Did you need assistance?”

Jane turned to her sash and then back to Mr. Bondevik. 

She didn’t know. A sweat had started to gather at her palms.

“No, I’m quite alright, I’m sure.”

Mr. Bondevik watched as she tried to open the drawer so she could remove the portion of her sash that was caught, but it wouldn’t budge. She must’ve been leaning on it long enough that she’d really wedged the fabric into it, and now she was unable to reciprocate with the same strength to pull it out.

Mr. Bondevik came a little closer, his brow cocked at the drawer-sash problem he was observing from over Jane’s shoulder.

“Perhaps I could give it a try.”

“No, no, really Mr. Bondevik, you ought to go take your seat, I’ll just be a moment, I-“ she paused to give her sash another tug – which it stubbornly resisted. 

“I’ll-“ 

_Tug_. 

“Be-“ 

_Tug._

“There-“ 

_Tug._

“In a moment!”

She gave it a final yank, her hands slipping over the weave of the sash, which had been thoroughly worked over by her sweaty palms, to fly back into her face. Jane let out a shocked yelp as pain split across her nose and she jerked her head back, which made contact with something else rather hard, and invoked a groan of pain from the man behind her.

She felt wetness at her nose and a drop at her lip. 

Jane tasted copper; she let out another startled gasp and pressed her fingers to her nose. She turned to look at Mr. Bondevik, who was rubbing his jaw like someone had punched him. 

“Oh goodness, did I hurt you? I’m terribly sorry – it was a terrible accident on my part, Mr. Bondevik, are you alright?”

Jane felt a mess what with the blood seeping through her fingers, which would stain absolutely everything starting at her gown, to Francis’ plush carpet. Mr. Bondevik waved her off.

“I’m fine, truly. It was just a bump.” Then his eyes fell to her and his expression shifted, which only made Jane panic all the more. “Ah, your nose.”

“Oh dear, I can’t believe I did that,” Jane babbled on. She was still caught in the drawer. “I’m terribly sorry Mr. Bondevik; truly, I’m not usually like this, I don’t know what’s-“

Mr. Bondevik moved so he was in front of her by the drawer. 

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled a neatly folded handkerchief.

“Hold still and use this.”

Her hands were at her nose. Mr. Bondevik held the handkerchief near her. 

“Move your hands.”

“I- I-“ 

They went back and forth like this for a few moments, with Mr. Bondevik trying to find an opening to lend her his kerchief, and Jane not wanting to seem improper by doing something as unladylike and unsophisticated as _bleeding_ on a gentleman.

Finally, Jane’s hands dropped and Mr. Bondevik succeeded in his goal. 

Jane caught the kerchief in her hands, holding it tightly to her nose, her brow drawn into a deep furrow. 

“Oh, Mr. Bondevik, now I’ve ruined your kerchief.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mr. Bondevik wasn’t looking at her, he was looking at her sash. “Now, let’s just get this settled and go to dinner.”

He bent down, hand resting on top of the cabinet as if he were studying just how exactly the sash had been wedged into the drawer; had the drawer merely closed tightly on it? Was it doubled over, the excess fabric trapping it in even tighter than what they could see? Perhaps it extended around past the corner? 

After a while of this Mr. Bondevik reached for the sash and gave it one sharp yank. The sash came loose, the part that was caught a little wrinkled, but overall, no worse for wear.

“Jane, Mr. Bondevik, is everything-“

Jane and Mr. Bondevik startled, looking at the door just as Francis stepped back in; they must have started serving the food.

“ _Mon Dieu_ , Jane what in God’s name happened?”

Jane flushed. A dull throb was starting to pound from the inside of her skull.

“I, uh,-“

“She tripped and bumped her nose on the way to dinner. She didn’t want to cause a scene,” Mr. Bondevik answered coolly.

“Tripped? Jane, what are we to do with you?” Francis scolded lightly. “Are you alright?” His eyes flicked between Mr. Bondevik and Jane.

“I am. Mr. Bondevik lent me his handkerchief – though I suppose I ought to just replace this one once I’m done with it…”

“Perish the thought,” Mr. Bondevik replied. 

Francis gestured for them to come to him.

“Jane, are you still fit enough to sit through dinner?”

A pang dropped in her stomach; she’d be attending dinner even if Yeatlor caught fire at that very moment. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast that morning.

“Yes, I’m really quite fine. It ought to stop soon.”

“Good.”

Francis ushered Mr. Bondevik and Jane out of the drawing room and towards the dining room. 

“You have my thanks, Mr. Bondevik.”

“And mine,” Jane added.

“It was no trouble at all, you need not mention it.”

In the dining room, the nightmare continued. Jane ducked her head, trying to conceal her shame but not at all able to hide the kerchief pressed to her nose. Mr. Adnan and Feliciano exclaimed in their loud voices, both brows lifted to convey their surprise, which somehow made it worse.

Francis took his seat at the head, Jane to his left, and Mr. Bondevik, next to her. Feliciano and Mr. Adnan were on the other side of the table.

“What happened?”

“Are you alright?”

“Ah, yes,” Jane felt perilously warm. She wished this had been an occasion in which she could’ve hidden behind her fan. “I…had a bit of an accident, you see, I’m so clumsy, and-“

Her story was interrupted by Feliciano’s sympathetic noises.

Jane sank a little lower in her chair and angled her head towards Mr. Bondevik, though she did not meet his gaze.

“Thank you again,” she said, her voice lowered.

“It’s alright. Please – calm your nerves. Some day you’ll be able to look back on this and laugh.”

“Is that day terribly far?”

Now she looked at him, and the corner of his mouth lifted into the hint of a smile.

“It might be.”

Jane kept herself shriveled up into the kerchief, the fabric getting increasingly russet as the conversation shifted from her little accident and the food came out. When everyone else had dished themselves up, it was then that Jane ventured outside the disgusting blossom of the wet kerchief, tucking it into her palm where it rested at her lap. A few minutes after this, she felt at ease enough to dish herself up and tuck into her meal.

“So, Monsieur Bondevik, I trust you are well?”

“I am, Mr. Bonnefoy, thank you.”

Francis’ eyes took on a reminiscent quality and he paused his hand going to his face as if trying to coax memories from the things it had weathered.

“The last time we were together and in the same room…must’ve been Monsieur Kohler’s wedding.”

Jane noticed that Mr. Bondevik’s face seemed to tighten as Francis said this.

“How is he anyway? Have you seen him lately?”

“I have not.”

Francis didn’t seem to notice the ice in his friend’s answer.

“What a shame. I remember how inseparable you two were when you were younger, though I suppose married life has kept him rather busy.”

“I suppose.”

Jane wanted to look away from Mr. Bondevik’s suddenly frigid disposition. She ventured that he must’ve had a falling out with this Mr. Kohler for him to detach so at Francis’ remarks.

“Then, it’s your turn to marry next, hm? Unless of course – don’t tell me, you’re already engaged?”

“I am not.”

“Well, the right lady will come along, I’m sure.”

“Perhaps.”

With Mr. Bondevik seemingly tapped for conversation, Francis decided it time to move on to greener pastures.

“Gilbert’s ball is tomorrow as I’m sure you’ve all heard. I’m hoping to introduce him to Jane.”

The sound of cutlery scraping against the dishes split the air.

“Now there’s a thought,” Feliciano mused. “Jane and the older Mr. Beilschmidt.”

“Feli, you disapprove?”

“No, no, not at all!” Feliciano looked like he’d sooner be strung up by his toes than caught disapproving something. “I’ve come to know both Mr. Beilschmidts well, and I like them both. The eldest though – he is a bit of an…acquired taste, is he not?”

Francis chuckled and Jane shot him a look, suddenly suspicious about his enthusiasm in introducing them. 

“That, he is.” There was some pause as people ate. The food was hot and the wine flowing; the gateway to lively dinner conversation. “Perhaps Monsieur Adnan will meet his match as well.” 

“That’s kind Mr. Bonnefoy, but I already have.”

Francis looked pleased.

“Truly then? You’ve married?”

Mr. Adnan laughed, a hearty sound. 

“No sir, I'm still courting Miss Munro - and counting the days until we can be properly engaged.”

Jane watched as a strange look passed over Francis’ face like he was swallowing something unpleasant, though this couldn’t be true; he’d specified the menu and its methods of preparation himself. His food was exquisite as always.

“Ah, I see,” Francis dabbed his napkin at his temple. “Then, that’s good.”

Feliciano didn’t seem to realize the mood that had come over Francis.

“That’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you Mr. Adnan – what sort of lady is she? Wonderful, I’m certain if she’s won your affections, and handsome?”

Everyone was quiet for a moment. Then, Francis piped up. 

“She is…most agreeable, for sure.”

Feliciano’s grin broadened.

“Then, charming too?”

Feliciano looked around the table for confirmation; Jane couldn’t provide that as she’d never met Miss Munro. Francis and Mr. Bondevik exchanged a look that suddenly seemed to unite them in the face of new adversity, despite whatever sore spot Francis had brushed during their earlier conversation.

“Oh yes, very,” Mr. Adnan answered.

“Then I should hope to meet her someday – have you all?”

“I have not,” replied Jane.

“I have,” said Mr. Bondevik. 

“And she is as remarkable as Mr. Adnan says?”

Mr. Bondevik paused and set his cutlery down, looking thoughtful. 

“Her kindness,” he started, “rivals that of even an adder.”

Jane, who had been taking a sip of her wine as Mr. Bondevik said this, gave a lurch as she coughed, shakily placing her glass back down on the table, pressing her napkin to her trembling lips as she sputtered into it.

“Jane,” Francis whispered sharply.

Mr. Bondevik was smiling in a way that didn’t touch his eyes. 

Mr. Adnan shot him a glare.


	4. Chapter 4

“Miss Doe, are you alright?”

Feliciano turned to Jane, who reached a hand out to wave meager assurances at the guest sitting across from her. Mr. Bondevik and Mr. Adnan were still locked in a tense appraisal. Francis, sensing this immediately, turned to Feliciano, in an act of skillful social diffusing.

“Feliciano, how are you liking your apprenticeship thus far?”

The man’s face lit up, which was perhaps the only indicator that it had not been already lit before. It seemed he had two settings; contented and jubilant, while he passed most of his life dancing between the two. It was a rather endearing quality on a grown man, Jane thought.

“Oh, I love it! _Meraviglioso_! Mr. Edelstein is teaching me so much and Mrs. Edelstein is most kind!”

At Feliciano’s unbridled happiness, the tension at the table seemed to ebb away, with Mr. Adnan and Mr. Bondevik decidedly looking away from each other to instead focus on the least provocative of the men. 

“I’ve been fortunate enough to have made a friend as well – Mr. Honda. 

Do you know him?”

“I can’t say I do,” Francis spoke for both he and Jane.

“He’s an apprentice too – one of the visual arts though, rather than music. 

He’s taken up residence with the Beilschmidts, actually.”

“How grand – then he’s in the valley too?”

“Yes! He should be at the ball tomorrow, should you care to meet him.” Feliciano looked to Jane. “Of course, my friends are your friends; I should be delighted if you two could make each other’s acquaintances.”

Jane smiled at Feli, unable to resist his warmth.

“The valley is wonderful,” Feliciano sighed. “The countryside picturesque and with the best of friendships to be forged. It feels like no wrong can touch here.”

Mr. Bondevik, ever the voice of reason dispelled the playful mood like someone yanking the screen away from a puppet show, revealing to the audience that it was in fact, just some scraps of fabric fitted on someone’s hand.

“I wouldn’t be so certain of that,” he said. “While I agree, living in the valley is preferable, it’s not immune to such evils in the world. I ask, have you read the newspaper lately?”

Feliciano’s brow raised in blissful ignorance. While grateful for his assistance still, Jane wanted to reach over and shut Mr. Bondevik’s mouth herself.

“Technically, Mr. Bondevik, what you are alluding to happened in town,” Francis pointed out. 

“What? What is he alluding to? Won’t someone tell me?”

Jane exchanged a look with Francis; neither wished to be the bearer of such news.

Mr. Bondevik took up the responsibility rather easily, himself.

“Then, you haven’t heard? The dreadful fate a young lady has been met with?”

“It’s _two_ young ladies now, actually,” Mr. Adnan corrected as he cut into his meal. “Another woman was reported missing.”

“Same place?” Mr. Bondevik asked.

“Still in town, but closer to the outskirts – a significantly less wealthy area,” Mr. Adnan raised his fork, gesturing with a piece of meat skewered at the end. “The victims didn’t know each other, although both, it was reported, were quite handsome.”

Feliciano’s face twisted up in horror, his brow cinched so tightly Jane thought the force of his vexation might tear his skin.

“No bodies have been found yet, although, I suppose that’s just a matter of time.” Mr. Adnan shook his head gravely. “Terrible business, all of it.”

“A true shame,” Francis agreed.

Silence fell on the table where even the sounds of eating seemed to have dissolved out of respect for the subject. Jane looked down, studying her hands at her lap; she'd suddenly lost her appetite.

Five months had passed with her living in the valley as Jane Doe; was she a missing woman? Was there a dinner table somewhere far off, where an empty seat haunted her family? 

Was anyone even missing her? 

Jane leaned back in her chair, feeling a little nauseated.

What plagued her worst of all, perhaps was what fate would befall these women if they didn’t end up like her, found by some benevolent benefactor with room on his grand estate – what would’ve happened to her if Francis hadn’t found her before some other less well-intended individual had?

-

The fire crackled and popped in the hearth, stray embers floating up like blushing phantoms, disappearing into the woodwork of the quaint cabin. Ivan sat, frame sagging fatigued in his rocking chair, the remainder of the plaisters from Yao nestled in their cloth, resting on the small table beside him.

The chill to his sore muscles almost numbed him to the pain entirely. 

He sighed and then stiffened as the very fringes of his exhale brought him to the arms of pain again, a dull ache that seemed ingrained in his bones, like mortar between bricks. He only wore his trousers now, but there was no one else in his residence to call him improper. 

The fire kept him warm enough, his home, safe enough.

He was fortunate; he didn’t pay the price for meat – others paid him, meanwhile, regardless of the greedy whims of the aristocrats, he always kept a full belly and a warm home. The bear pelt under his rocking chair could attest to this, its black, marble eyes reflecting the glow of his hearth like stolen embers.

Ignat, his Great Dane, rested at his foot, massive jowls nestled on top of his paws. 

Every so often, Ivan would reach through the whine of his aching muscles to scratch behind Ignat's ears, and the thump of his tail against the side table would punctuate the remote silence.

At about a quarter to midnight, Ivan was halfway through a bottle of brandy. 

He was warm inside and out; the fire warmed him from the outside, and the liquor set at his roaming thoughts, baking him from the inside. 

Ivan lolled a glassy-eyed stare to the plaisters at his side table. The cloth was distinctively Yao’s, or rather, distinctively not his own, and if it were not his, it had to be Yao’s, because there was hardly anyone else’s company he could stomach.

This one, he recognized as Yao’s right off the bat; there were magpies embroidered at the corner, flying in a crisscrossed formation that alluded to them forever meeting and parting again, knitting a tapestry of reunion and despair. Yao had told him once that it was based on a Chinese love story, Ivan couldn’t remember what it was though, he’d been thinking about the inquisitive arch of the other man’s brow, and the reassuring weight of him in his arms.

Ivan traced his fingers over the birds absent-mindedly, feeling the individual threads under the pads of his fingers. The firelight flitted between his knuckles, slipping against his skin like the waters of the River Styx.

By the plaisters was a piece of parchment, addressed to him and laying in the straggling ends of a red ribbon. Ivan was pointedly ignoring this; he was seldom invited to balls, and even more seldom did he attend.

If Ivan were to go to his front window, he would’ve been able to see the top of Hyacinth Chateau, just barely peeping up from within the clutches of the valley. He wondered idly (and rather unimpressed) as to what the Beilschmidts could be doing just then. Mr. Beilschmidt – that is, the eldest Mr. Beilschmidt, about twenty years Ivan’s senior, had just passed away. 

He’d bet they were still feasting like fat, happy, drunk stock in their mourning clothes. Ivan felt disgust at the back of his throat, the bile of his temper welled up to subject him to his ire. He had so little patience for people and their follies. Even with one Beilschmidt less, there seemed to be too many people swarming the valley. Here they lay, with their lavish parties, and extravagant soirees, scaring off his game, feeding his throbbing headache.

He pressed his fingers to his temple in an attempt to ease the ache, his arm catching mid-movement, stiff and sore, despite the potency of Yao’s plaisters.

Honestly, whether or not Mr. Beilschmidt married, he’d have more money than he could ever spend – so what did he need all of these people for? 

They didn’t put a roof over his head, or food on his table. 

Certainly, the Mr. Beilschmidt Ivan remembered – the loud, proud lieutenant - was just like Narcissus, looking to pass his days wasting away before his own pale reflection. All the world was a mirror, wasn’t it? Every person who stepped into his home, just another eager hand to stroke his ego.

The newly land-fallen Colonel would be going, an annoying, bumbling fixture in the elder Mr. Beilschmidt’s life. He’d be bringing his man too, who’d been his man since he was a boy - when he'd been his _boy_ too.

Ivan scoffed though there was no one around to notice. From by his feet, a groan creaked through Ignat’s throat, who shifted his weight before resting his head on his paws again.

Poor, pathetic Mr. Silva; Ivan knew while he didn’t live so grandly as Colonel Fernándezs and Mr. Bonnefoys that at least he wasn’t leashed by financial endeavors gone terribly sour, the way Mr. Silva was.

Speaking of which, that Mr. Bonnefoy _was_ an interesting character, with words so sweet he could lure most anyone, man or woman to his bed as easily as sugar water brought hummingbirds. Such skill must certainly come in handy when filling each room in his sizeable house with a different lover.

And that woman, the one who’d shown up mysteriously on his doorstep almost a half a year ago. She was no lover – at least not _just_ a lover. Mr. Bonnefoy took her everywhere. If she was a mistress, then she was the madame of mistresses, enjoying an esteemed position among the rest of his mysterious, twilight guests.

Not a wife, definitely not so, and yet there was something that tied her to Mr. Bonnefoy, more resiliently than the mere lustful hold a mistress could have on him. Ivan thought this over carefully, fingering the kerchief with the plaisters idly.

She had come around just when Ivan had felt the inkling of an oncoming change stirring inside his bones. He could remember feeling the onset of sobering, trying change – the game had been scarce that day, the trees eerily quiet while Ignat had taken to pacing, a restless, devil-driven, maddening pace, his tail held cautiously as he whined and pawed at the ground.

The disappearances in town had started about then too; not the same two women who’d just gone missing – God save their souls – but the first round of disappearances, when the community was shattered by them rather than desensitized, back when search parties with their torches had been sent into the woods each night. Ivan would know, he’d been in several.

It had been a series of unfortunate happenings in town, not just with the disappearances, but the fire that took down a rather nice estate, and before the people’s court had condemned the reputable Mr. Kirkland – once a beacon of light in the community, now a dangerous, evil thing not to be named, nevermind that poor daughter of his. 

God help her too.

There had been that terrible storm – the one where the valley flooded and the wind whipped through the trees in a way that made it seem like God’s wrath had planned on wrenching centuries-old trees straight from the ground. The sun that followed in the days after had been none too reassuring. 

That’s when she’d shown up, Miss Doe, baring a face no one had seen before and with the name of women who were never seen alive again.

She had shown up with a face like an angel and his blood ran cold like the water in the valley. A she-demon, a banshee here to herald more misfortune, a temptress, with how Mr. Bonnefoy looked at her.

She had shown up, a horseman of Armageddon. Ivan felt like a lone prophet, the only one not so blinded by the folly of man that he couldn’t see her for what she was.

He reached for the invitation again and unfolded it. The ribbon curled gently down the length of his forearm, like a vein. Red was a color of warning and made the heart beat faster. 

Mr. Bonnefoy and that woman would be at the ball, along with every other dandy and peacocking bachelor in the valley.

He ran his fingers over the ink, feeling where the quill pressed into the vellum. 

Red was also the color of passion; something that Ivan hated to think and talk about, but that at times appeared in his life in tolerable quantities that he maybe didn’t hate so much while they passed.

Come to think of it, it wouldn’t only be people from the valley attending the ball; Mr. Wang, for example, never missed events like these, despite living in town and his wariness of people. Most everyone in the valley was some sort of business contact of his, and those who weren’t were potential clients. 

Mr. Wang was never one to waste anything, least of all, an opportunity. Ivan almost smiled at the thought. 

He supposed he shouldn’t waste one either.

-

It was another one of those gray-blue mornings inside Yeatlor. 

As usual, Jane and Francis sat in the same old seats, nibbling on bread warmed by the hearth and sipping at coffee. 

Unusually though, it was Francis who’d come into the drawing room that morning, only to find the fire in the fireplace already most lively, and breakfast already having begun. 

Jane, using her cheekiness to combat her surliness at having been woken up earlier than usual for ball preparations, had taken it upon herself to get first dibs on the paper. She scarcely looked up at Francis as he entered the room, which had the man, still groggy and a little muddled from sleep (and perhaps the previous night’s drinking) pausing at the doorway, watching the scene at the table and trying to puzzle together exactly what was so unusual about that morning.

He took a seat at the head of the table, which he realized, didn’t feel like the head today when there were only two people to attend breakfast and he was the last one to join. 

He noticed a cup of coffee was waiting for him, steam already curling off the top. A strange morning indeed.

Francis sat there in a quiet that crackled at his nerves for a good few minutes, not touching his coffee, just waiting for the wall of print and paper to come down so he could see his breakfast companion – there _was_ someone reading the newspaper, wasn’t there?

Francis was feeling a bit like the main character in a gothic novel; the quiet that morning, only punctuated by the snap and pop of the fire might drive him positively mad, leading him to wrench the paper down in demand of conversation and contact, only to find--! That there was no one behind the paper at all.

He was thinking this, his imagination leaving his sluggish body far behind in the drawing room as it rolled on with the momentum of tumbleweed with the force of the four winds behind it.

Luckily, Jane was as disquieted by the silence as he was. After a few more minutes, during which Francis’ leg had developed a terrible shake beneath the table, Jane lowered the paper so that she could peer out at Francis over the top.

“You’re awfully quiet.”

He cocked an eyebrow. 

“I was leaving you to read the paper. Anything of interest?”

Jane shrugged and folded the paper shut before setting it down at Francis’ left, where it usually sat.

“See for yourself. I’m more interested in something else I found ‘in’ the paper this morning.”

It was then Francis realized there was another paper, sitting discretely by Jane’s plate. 

“And what might that be?”

He could tell by the peculiar quirk of her lips that she was feeling mischievous this morning, perhaps even a little coy. She batted her eyes innocently at him as if to prove his point.

“You mustn’t worry yourself about this silly old thing – you have your paper, and now, I have mine.”

She took the other paper in her hands and unfolded it like she had the regular paper; it was much smaller, more of a pamphlet than a paper. It barely covered her face. 

To his credit, he could now read the cover though; _A CRITIQUE ON THE ROLE OF MARRIAGE IN WOMANHOOD, BY A LADY._

“That an interesting thing you look to be reading.”

“Oh, it is.” 

“What’s it about?”

“” It’s ‘A Critique on the-“

“’ On the role of marriage in womanhood’, yes, yes, I see that of course, but what else?”

Annoyance shot through Francis as he watched Jane lower the paper to give him another cattish look from behind it.

“If you _must_ know, it’s about how society has framed the worth of a woman to be staked on the prudence and success of finding a good marriage match. For a woman, who can’t inherit her family’s fortune - if there is one - nor can she serve in the army or forge a fortune for herself, a good marriage is the expected way for women to keep themselves from going destitute.”

Francis forced back a grin; while Jane was sharp to be sure, and with a tongue that sometimes employed her wit in the most dreadful and inopportune of places, he had never known her to read copiously in her free time. She’d probably taken that little excerpt straight from the pamphlet, as she was reading it for the first time herself.

“Mhm,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. “And you thought today, the day of a ball in which you might very well make such a match, the appropriate time to study such…interesting materials?”

Jane continued on as if she hadn’t heard him.

“How funny,” she mused aloud. “That a woman’s worth is tied to her husband, and not what she can do with her own hands.”


	5. Chapter 5

Francis sighed and resigned himself to taking her bait.

“You know, Jane, _ma chère,_ all a young lady such as yourself has to do is choose wisely then. The power is technically all yours, _non_? To refuse any matches you deem undesirable or unsatisfactory.”

Jane paused – not to listen to Francis, but to tear a chunk from her bread and pop it into her mouth. Popping was terribly unladylike. 

“Oh, yes, quite,” she said in a way that instantly told him ‘no’ and ‘certainly not’. “That’s all very well and good, but dear Francis, society has women set on choosing a particular sort of man.”

He tried to ignore how her voice curdled his name in ‘dear Francis’.

“And what sort of man would that be?”

“A rich one,” she said in full confidence. “And if you’re old or plain, then any one.”

“Forgive me – but that doesn’t sound like all that trying of a job.”

Jane gave an indignant huff.

“Maybe it’s not – that is, until you’ve already taken vows before God and then suddenly your husband is beating you, or turning to the bottle, or gambling your entire life away and then I ask – are such women better off than turning to spinsters or being resigned as a governess for some other family’s children?”

“Marriage is for better or for worse, Jane – it’s in the vows. What you’ve mentioned is the worst, the absolute, terrible worst that I’d never wish nor expect to befall you – but whether or not a woman would be better or worse off is irrelevant. She is bound to her husband, as her husband is bound to her.”

“But that’s just the thing; you say they are bound to each other as if there’s truth to the equality of that binding, but the law doesn’t hold the two equal. If a woman commits adultery, for example, she can be divorced by her husband, but adultery on the husband’s part is expected to be forgiven!”

Francis looked at her and raised his cup to his lips, pausing a hairsbreadth away from a full sip.

“Then tell me, Jane, do you plan on committing adultery?”

“Of course not,” she narrowed her eyes at him and snatched the pamphlet back up in her hands. 

Turning it over so that he could see the back of it, he noticed that another part of it was sectioned off. 

“Anyway, look here.” She tapped rather aggressively at the new, sectioned off part. 

“A part two?”

“No. The editor at the printers seemed to take it upon himself to insert his own thoughts on the subject.”

“And that’s bad?”

Jane flung the pamphlet back down on the table; Francis gave an amused little half-smile that he only half-slyly covered with his hand.

“It mocks everything the original author said – it’s _rude_.”

Francis agreed- that _was_ rude. If he’d been the individual paying good money to have something printed, he’d have raked the owner of the press naked over hot coals for having asserted himself thus. 

Francis couldn’t resist teasing though – what could he say? Jane was good fun for that.

“But _ma chère,_ isn’t that what the pamphlet argues for? For women to assume more equal roles to their male counterparts in society? Shouldn’t this mystery woman be grateful she’s getting the opportunity to publicly argue her case against a working man?”

“It’s not the same at all,” Jane sniffed. “The man owns his own business and makes his own money - no one would ever doubt the validity of the claim to his words, but then what did he do? He ruined the only sparse platform this woman possibly had to air her concerns – concerns the man would never have to share, I might add.”

“Concerns about…marrying improperly?”

“Concerns about weathering a stifling girlhood all for the sake of a mediocre husband.”

“And you don’t think he doesn’t feel like he’s had to slave away through his good years, just in the hopes of scavenging for a loyal, doting wife?”

“I wouldn’t use the word ‘slaved’,” Jane said sharply. “He reeks of mediocrity from where I’m sitting now.”

-

Breakfast had put both Jane and Francis into rather sour moods, the former, for being rather unimpressed by her dining companion’s response to the new pamphlet that had shown up, and the latter, due to his companion’s stubborn temper and how she seemed to insist on holding him to his teasing comments with an iron, white-knuckled grip.

Luckily for the both of them, they saw very little of each other throughout the day; Francis was off making final preparations for when they were to leave that night, on top of attending to his own appearance. Jane passed most of the day with Charlotte; she’d been dressed in her stockings, chemise, and gown earlier on – most of the day would be devoted to Jane’s hair.

Jane used much of this time to let her mind idle at what she and Francis had spoken of earlier. So what if she were to meet Mr. Beilschmidt that evening, and worse yet, what if he took a liking to her?

Her teeth worried at her bottom lip, which occasionally sparked the chastising hand of Charlotte when she caught sight of it in the mirror.

“Now, now, Miss – you ought not worry. Nothing will strain your beauty more, and what poor timing it would be with the ball this evening.”

“Yes, Charlotte, you’re right.”

Jane felt Charlotte’s words drop straight into her stomach to curdle like milk. 

She was hemorrhaging her worth with every ill-swipe of her face or tug at her hair. And whose money exactly? 

“What’s vexing you, Miss Doe? Are you not excited about tonight?”

“No, no,” Jane answered, a little out of sorts. 

At Charlotte’s face, reflected back to her and stunned, Jane hastily moved to correct herself.

“I mean, nothing’s troubling me much – the ball will be nice, I think.” 

Jane had more she wanted to ask Charlotte, though she waited until her face was good and settled to do so. She wondered how much money she’d costed Charlotte, in that conversation alone.

“Charlotte.”

“Miss Doe?”

Jane watched as Charlotte gently pulled a cloth curler from her hair, the lock of hair renewed with a springy quality that would lay nicely in the updo Charlotte styled her in.

“I was doing a bit of reading during breakfast.”

“Reading, Miss?”

“Yes – a new pamphlet that’s come around by the valley, along with the regular paper. Have you read it?”

Charlotte shrugged.

“Never been much for reading, Miss. Never got the chance to learn.”

“Oh.” Jane found herself suddenly feeling a bit odd. It hadn’t occurred to her that Charlotte might not know how to read. Something akin to shame welled in her chest, but she wasn’t quite sure where it came from. “Ah, well, it talked about the unfairness of women having to rely on marriage for security.”

Charlotte gave her shoulders another little bounce, somehow retaining the same fluid slip of cloth from Jane’s perfectly coiffed curls.

“If you ask me, Miss, it’s a risk either way.”

Jane found herself surprised at Charlotte’s quiet answer.

“Well, of course, that’s true Charlotte, but what women worry about, they can’t even control! They can’t eke out their own fortune and fail by their own hands – they’re deigned to do so at the hands of their husbands, the very ones society has instilled in them to think of as their saving grace.”

Now all the curlers were out and Jane thought she looked like one of those frilly, fluffy, curly-cue dogs some of the dandies in town had. This was gradually rectified as Charlotte took to artfully pinning her hair.

“Much of the trouble life holds for us isn’t in our control, Miss. I daresay there isn’t such thing as a life free of vexation for anyone, not even the King and Queen themselves – and not all women are without work. Lord knows there’s plenty of work to be done about the house – at least if a woman marries well, she needn’t worry about a roof over her head or protection.”

“Unless her husband is the one she needs protection from.”

Jane stared hard at Charlotte through the vanity, who remained noticeably quiet in response. She took up the brush to loosen a few tendrils at the crown of her head, framing her face in a way that was rather particular but didn’t look it.

When Charlotte caught at a snarl, Jane let out a little yelp.

Charlotte flinched away.

“My apologies Miss Doe – I wasn’t careful enough.”

Charlotte finished helping her get ready in silence after that, save for the periodic ‘Miss Doe’ to guide her attention to an accessory or such. Jane considered this carefully alongside the expression Charlotte had held when she’d pulled at the tangle in Jane’s hair earlier – fearful, like Jane could’ve reciprocated in hardship worth a thousand pulled hairs, or even a million.

They left the room together, one preened and off to mingle with wealthy bachelors, the other, off to say her prayers and go to bed, for she had an early morning the day next. The only thing to separate these two women were the circumstances they were born into – they shared the same house, the same age, the same stealthy hearts hoarding dreams like flowers pressed between the pages of the very books Charlotte couldn’t read.

The pamphlet lay forgotten at Jane’s vanity.

-

Jane watched the lights leading up the path to Hyacinth Chateau through the window of the carriage. She sat, head bowed, nose nearly pressed to the glass, as she tried to see as much of the estate as she could. The sun was well below the horizon now, the sky dulled to a grave blue-black. 

Women in white muslin dresses stepped out of the obsidian silhouettes of carriages, helped by dashing partners who reconciled the light and dark; the versatility of man, with his dark jacket and white cravat and shirt. That was about as complex as they got, Jane thought.

Still, though, she appreciated Francis’ steady hand in hers as he helped her from the carriage, even if they hadn’t exactly exchanged a pleasant word since breakfast that morning. When her feet touched the ground, she could hardly believe that the gravel felt the same as it did at Yeatlor; this estate was far bigger – stately and grand, and they were still at its front steps.

Through the windows, Jane could make out sweeps of fabric by the windows like a tapestry frame into a world of beauty and splendor; people were already on the dance floor, moving with the synchronicity of bees in spring, but with the grace of butterflies. Jane itched to be there too – even if it did require her to be in the arms of one Mr. Beilschmidt, whose reputation preceded him and already brought Jane to the decision that she didn’t like him.

She didn’t care about that right now – she wanted to be on the floor, her feet sore and her face bright. She wanted the warm flood of wine in her system and to feel light as air with the levity that came from the burdenless nature of a party; there were no weddings in balls, only stealing looks with handsome strangers and the preface of falling in love. 

There was no work at balls, only inspiration and the potential one’s hands had in acting on it. 

Jane was almost pulling Francis along, straining against the safety of her hands at his arm.

“Excited after all, are we?”

Jane couldn’t tear her eyes from the windows. 

“The dancing’s already started, if we hurry, we can make it in for the next one.”

Francis chuckled and the sound made Jane want to pull him along. A voice stopped them though, friendly, cheerful, familiar; Jane felt annoyance shoot through her, and then she looked in the direction of the voice, and as soon as the feeling came, it faded.

“Feliciano!”

“Mr. Bonnefoy, Miss Doe,” Feliciano was grinning from ear to ear, walking a few paces ahead of a stately looking couple who were arm in arm, much like Francis and Jane were.

Feliciano bowed to them, and Jane returned with a curtsy enthusiastic enough to make Francis raise his brow skeptically. She took one gloved hand from Francis and extended it to Feliciano’s waiting ones so he could press a kiss to the back of it. “ _Bellissima_! There should be a ball in the valley every day, just because it compliments you so.”

Jane giggled – insufferable, she knew, but she couldn’t help it.

The man behind Feliciano cleared his throat, his brow pulled into an annoyed furrow.

“Feliciano – won’t you introduce us to your…friend?”

Francis chuckled and bowed again.

“Roderich, you haven’t changed a bit, save for I suppose, the lovely lady now on your arm.” Francis bowed more deeply to her. “It is the greatest privilege to meet the acquaintance of Madame Edelstein.”

The woman at Roderich’s arm curtsied, her lips curved into a demure smile.

“You must be Mr. Bonnefoy – my husband has spoken much about you.”

“Yes, quite true – and none of it good.”

Feliciano turned to Jane.

“Miss Doe, this is my mentor, Mr. Edelstein, and his wife, Mrs. Edelstein.”

Jane curtsied. 

“A pleasure.”

“I’m sure it is.” Mr. Edelstein’s eyes were calculating, his spectacles adding a cold, glassy quality that intensified the man’s daunting sense of decorum. “My, Francis, is this the young, little thing you’re running around with these days?”

Feliciano’s eyes widened, his face flushing a little. 

“Roderich, you have it all wrong _mon ami_ , she’s the eligible bachelorette I’m introducing to Gil.”

At the mention of the owner of the estate, Roderich’s face seemed to tighten.

“You see,” Francis continued, “I was told he was in need of a wife now.”

At the mention of Francis’ matchmaking aspirations, Jane felt her face warm. She’d done well to forget about her purpose there that evening for a full minute before once again, it was rudely thrust in front of her like an unsightly pile of horse manure.

Jane didn’t feel her pride could withstand Mr. Edelstein’s scrutiny, so she turned to look at Mrs. Edelstein and gave a polite curtsy to her as well, which was promptly returned.

Mrs. Edelstein’s eyes seemed to linger on Jane, searching for something she wasn’t sure she had. When Jane held her stare, Mrs. Edelstein seemed to remember herself and broke the contact, retreating into her finery, her eyes at her toes. 

“You were well informed, the poor man is getting a bit old to be without companionship.”

An uncomfortable quiet had settled between Mr. Edelstein and Francis, the two men glaring at each other with smiles that weren’t fooling anyone, plastered at their faces. Jane took this resounding gap in the conversation to say her piece.

“Mrs. Edelstein – forgive me, I couldn’t help but notice your stare.”

The men looked at Jane as if remembering she could speak, suddenly intrigued in what had transpired in the world of women as they’d sized each other up.

Mrs. Edelstein’s face pinkened.

“No, no, it is I who should ask to be forgiven. You…looked like someone I thought I knew once. I seemed to have forgotten myself.”

At this, Jane’s heart leaped up. Who had she resembled so much to make Mrs. Edelstein stare? Wasn’t it possible that Mrs. Edelstein _had_ been someone she knew once? They said that Mr. Edelstein had met and married his wife in town, not in the valley – the one place Jane knew she couldn’t have been from. 

Jane looked at Mrs. Edelstein hard, trying to catch her eye, but the other woman’s gaze was on her husband’s face, looking dutifully to him to decide what they were to do next.

“Then, we’re going to catch flies out here. Shall we join the others in the festivities?”

“Certainly,” Francis agreed, and he swept an arm out for the other party to go first. 

Jane watched helplessly as the Edelsteins and Feliciano made their way into the house, dumb to how her eyes trailed after them. _Wait!_ Jane wanted to cry, _I seemed to have forgotten myself too!_

-

Francis led her inside, her initial impatience dampened by the troubling thought of Mrs. Edelstein and her ‘mistake’. The man on her arm picked up on this change in her mood, noticing how she clung to him instead of how she'd pulled him along before.

“ _Ma chère_ , please, you mustn’t look so sour – balls are great fun. Look, I see a friend of yours already.”

Francis pointed through the crowd, his head moving close to hers so that they were at a more equitable eye level. A lock of his blonde hair tickled her cheek as she followed the direction of his finger to a familiar face.

“Oh, it’s Mr. Wang!”

The ambition in her step renewed, Jane led Francis through the throngs of people gathered at the perimeter of the dancefloor to where Mr. Wang was standing. She hadn’t imagined he’d have been there; not after how resolutely he’d attested to his professionalism the other day – such declarations did little to inspire the image of fun.

Yet, here he was, his brow relaxed, and dare she say - even a slight smile at his lips?

“Mr. Wang,” Jane called when they were closer.

Immediately, Mr. Wang caught on to the direction from which his name had come, and he looked up. Jane was pleased (if not a little surprised) to see the smile at his lips spread.

“Miss Doe – I thought I might see you tonight. Don’t you look lovely?”

Her face warmed at this and she ducked her head, looking over the length of her gown; plain and white and affectionately lined with lace trim, she hadn’t thought extensively about it once she’d put it on, though now that Mr. Wang had commented on her appearance, she seemed to take meticulous stock of it once again.


	6. Chapter 6

“Enough to tempt you to dance?”

She had intended the comment cheekily sure enough, though she hadn’t expected him to accept so readily.

“Why, Miss Doe, I don’t think I could say no even if I wanted to.”

Jane could think of nothing but these words as she waited for the swell of music to die and give way to the next song. She turned them around and around in her head; he didn’t _think_ he could say no but he didn’t _know_ , he spoke of saying ‘no’ but not of thinking it or feeling it, he mentioned wanting to say no as if it were conditional and not absolute – so what did that mean?

Jane knew what she wanted to believe and she knew where her line of thinking had led her, but she also knew that the two scarcely matched and that her mind was reeling so fast it almost kept up with her heart, which was convulsing and throbbing in her chest like something sickly.

In the end, she never heard the tap of the baton against the music stand or the whine of the instruments adjusting their key for the sake of knowing they could come together as one voice if they really so chose.

Instead, it was Mr. Wang’s arm nudging crisply between her stiff fingers in a way that seemed fluid and natural when he did it.

“Miss Doe,” he said. Then, when she did not answer: 

“Jane, shall we?”

She had regained her senses enough to line up with the other ladies, a wall of white muslin and curls adorned with pearls, lace, and ribbon. She could feel the barrel of her chest strain against the fabric with how big a breath she was trying to take. Then, her eyes met his from across the way; Mr. Wang was lined up with the other gentlemen. Without his spectacles, his eyes had lost their guarded quality and she at once recalled his face how she’d first seen him; face flushed, the brown of his eyes warm like honey but made her drunk like whiskey. His hair tonight was not askew like it had been, instead, tied neatly back with a ribbon of his own. 

The music started and the ground ceased to exist under her feet but she had no reason to rely on her own sensibilities (which had vacated her) – that was the beauty of dancing! She could rely on his, and she had no doubt of Mr. Wang’s own sensibilities. He was a _professional_ , after all.

The music started, the beat not discernable aloud – everyone had it within them - that’s how dancing worked, it’s how they all stayed aligned. 

She stepped out when the other ladies did, Mr. Wang following in suit with the other gentlemen, so that they met at the middle, their hands clasping just to keep each other in a tight, seamless orbit as they turned and found themselves on the sides they’d just been looking at. 

It was neither the pace nor spin that left her breathless. They repeated the step and this time, when their hands met in the middle, Mr. Wang’s lips moved.

“You’re wearing the perfume.”

She hadn’t expected him to speak. She was at the side she had started on then, turning around the lady next’s partner, before meeting with Mr. Wang in the middle, side by side.

“I beg your pardon?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. They took two steps forward and turned around, still a pair, as they retraced their steps.

“The perfume I gave you yesterday. You’re wearing it.”

Jane couldn’t stifle her grin and she ducked her face, trying to deflect the gesture delicately, the way ladies did. They weaved around each other, parting to step to their starting positions before meeting in the middle again, hands touching.

“It’s a new favorite of mine,” she said. 

She let the pads of her fingers graze at his hand for a breath longer than the other partners did. Only they themselves noticed that they’d returned to each side, tardy to only the eyes of God.

The next time they met in the middle, their hands touched again, their arms extended like they were steadying the other. In this formation, they made that same tight orbit; there were at least a dozen other pairs on the floor, but like this, one could hardly notice.

“That makes me most pleased.”

Mr. Wang up close like this was almost unrecognizable; he had the hands of an artist and the words of a poet at those full lips. If he was a business mogul then he must’ve also been a charming character in one of Shakespeare’s plays or Mozart’s operas.

They separated for the next step and turn. Once her face was concealed from him, Jane took a few moments to allow herself to laugh.

They met in the middle again; their hands passed from one another like secrets.

“You’re laughing,” he said. “Why?”

They parted, stepped, turned. The whole room looked like one, big, intricate music box. 

“Oh, it’s nothing.”

Step and turn.

“If it was truly nothing, then why did you laugh?”

Step and turn and hands again. Why had she worn gloves? What a bother they were.

“It’s nothing much,” she insisted. “Only, I didn’t figure you the type to dance.”

Jane was grateful when they once again paired off in the middle for the sequence of prolonged steps side by side; a part of the dance that no doubt encouraged conversation.

“You’re not entirely wrong – usually, I am not.”

She couldn’t hide her surprise; she almost disturbed their careful pattern.

“Well, now-“

She was cut off when they were forced to part. When they returned to one another, she tried again.

“Well, now, why are you at a ball then?” 

The dance was almost over and a sense of urgency overtook Jane. She had to get all her questions out now, laid at his feet, or else, who knew if she’d ever get the chance to ask him again. 

She undercut her first question with a second one. Their hands met in the middle and she felt as if he were anchored to her.

“Why are you even dancing?”

She had used up all their time together. The line of dancers parted like the Red Sea; all the dancers, except for them, anyway.

They stood, lone ducks in the middle, facing each other. Jane felt her face burn, but she couldn’t leave Mr. Wang out in the middle by himself.

“I told you, didn’t I?” he asked, his dark eyes boring into hers. “I couldn’t say no to you even if I wanted to.”

The music slowed. Their hands were still fitted firmly within each other. 

The music stopped. Jane could’ve stayed there forever, but then the ripple of applause that broke out across the room snapped both of them from their trance-like state. So the dance was over.

Jane reluctantly pulled her hand from Mr. Wang’s grasp so she could give her thanks to the musicians. Mr. Wang clapped too, his face unreadable except for when Jane looked away, and he knew it safe to steal another glimpse of her.

The dancers on the floor cleared out as those hoping to dance the next song started lining up, equal parts eager and demure. The room seemed to buzz from these two warring tensions; what one was versus what they were supposed to be.

Jane was almost oblivious to this; she was trying to predict how good her chances of squeezing another dance from Mr. Wang would be.

“Mr. Wa-“

“Jane!”

Both Mr. Wang and Jane looked up at the sound of her name; Francis was standing off to the side by the entrance of the ballroom, waving at her so she could spot him through the mill of people. Beside him were two men she didn’t recognize, one with his hair a shock of white she’d never seen on anyone younger than seventy.

“I, uh-“

Jane looked from Mr. Wang back to Francis. She felt stuck in place; she couldn’t leave of her own accord. Mr. Wang would have to tow her from the dancefloor, or else, leave her to succumb to the annoyance of the dancers.

“That’ll be Mr. Beilschmidt,” Mr. Wang said, an eyebrow cocked. “The _older_ Mr. Beilschmidt.”

Jane’s throat went dry.

“Oh.”

She still didn’t want to move. The pack of people around them was getting thicker. Mr. Wang watched her, sensing her uncharacteristic skittishness. 

His hand found hers again. She watched numbly as he lifted her gloved hand to his lips, bowing deeply to press a kiss to the back of it.

“Then, I shall leave you here, Miss Doe.” She watched, dreading still as he smiled at her. It was too open; if time had not forced his hand, he wouldn’t have smiled at her like that, not for a few more meetings yet. 

This was not the sign of beginnings – this was a goodbye, and before a proper beginning could even come about.

“Until we meet again.”

She stood there, frozen still for a few more moments, her eyes wide like dinner plates. Mr. Wang rose slowly, and then as if remembering where they were and who was expecting her, she snatched her hand back, the other hand clutching it as if she’d just narrowly avoided losing her coin to someone with faster fingers than she.

“Mr. Wang,” she dipped into a hasty curtsy and hurried off in the direction of her benefactor.

Mr. Wang’s eyes trailed after her, watching as she went to receive Mr. Beilschmidt.

The men watched her as she closed the distance between them, the white-haired one’s eyes a deep russet – probably for the same confounding reasons his hair was snow-white, but still, Jane felt unease prickle at her skin when they didn’t leave her the entire time. The other was much easier on the eyes, his face having lost the roundness of boyhood, but still with eyes a lackadaisical blue and an endearing dimple leaping out by the corner of his lips, which were curved into a soft smile.

Francis received her; both men bowed, the more unnerving of the two never stopped watching her. Jane felt almost as if she’d sink into her shoes.

“Gilbert, Mr. Jones, this is Jane.”

The casual nature of the introduction did not escape her notice; Francis had willfully left her surname out. Mr. Jones’ smile only deepened. He was evidently young – much closer to her age than Gilbert or Francis, though there was a certain respect his visage commanded that rang elder to either of theirs. Gilbert, however, didn’t seem to be the sort to keep up with decorum anyway; he took to her given name seamlessly.

She turned decidedly to Mr. Jones, who didn’t make her skin crawl.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He chuckled.

“Believe me, Jane, the pleasure is all mine.”

The other man cleared his throat, determined not to be outdone.

“Jane, then, I was told I _had_ to meet you.”

“I was told likewise.”

He looked her up and down, and already, Jane felt her cheeks warm indignantly.

She met his stare. He wasn’t smiling the least bit, and Jane regretted even attempting the beginnings of a smile even for etiquette’s sake.

“Oh? Then, I must know – have I met your expectations?”

This question caught both her and Mr. Jones’ interest, though the latter had the good sense not to insert himself into what was obviously, a properly dressed up challenge.

Gilbert’s fair brow was cocked, nearly invisible against his equally fair skin. 

She remembered how she’d felt as he’d studied her a few minutes before – autopsied while wide awake. She tried to hold onto that.

“I suppose you’ll do,” she said coldly.

Francis’ hand was warning at her elbow and Mr. Jones cleared his throat, ducking his face to disguise the sharp way his lips quirked upwards – like this, he didn’t look more than twenty and two. Gilbert was unreadable until he wasn’t; he let a few moments of tense silence pass – for theatrical effect, no doubt – and then his thin lips were spread into a wide grin, showcasing teeth that could’ve been pearls in a dowry.

“Now, I get it,” he seemed to say to no one in particular. “I get it now, Francis, why you said I had to meet this ‘Jane’ of yours.”

Annoyance flared at how he said her name. His eyes dropped over her form again and Jane’s arms came to wrap around herself. She felt like he was staring past the safety of her gown. 

Jane turned her attention to Mr. Jones; if nothing else, he was more pleasant to look at. 

“Then, Mr. Jones, do you like balls?”

He smiled, small and secret in a way that made her feel like it was just for her.

“I do with the right company.”

She let herself smile back and looked him over once – not unlike how Gilbert had with her. Mr. Jones was dressed far less grandly than Gilbert and Francis were. While his clothes were clean and well pressed, his jacket was void of embellishments and could’ve (and probably _did_ ) double as his normal coat for work and other such day-to-day things. It was an allowance that men – especially handsome ones – were allowed at balls. 

“What a coincidence, so do I.”

Their eyes met and Jane waited hopefully for an invitation to dance. 

“Then, I suppose that’s my cue to ask you to dance.”

Jane looked, startled as Gilbert held out his arm in offering. Perhaps she should’ve been more specific in her wishing and hoping. They were watching her expectantly – Mr. Jones, Francis, and Gilbert, and so she had no choice but to tentatively reach out to grasp the latter's arm. 

“Perhaps I might request the dance after,” Mr. Jones said, looking to Gilbert now, rather than Jane. 

That’s right – it wasn’t going to be her choice unless Gilbert relinquished his claim to her on the dancefloor.

“Perhaps!”

Jane looked back to Mr. Jones and Francis helplessly as the other man pulled her to the floor, where dancers were once again scrambling for their starting positions. Jane took hers and stared decidedly at her feet, rather than at Gilbert’s face.

There was the first swell of music, a less full sound than the song she’d danced with Mr. Wang, but not without its own charms to hold her there – alongside her tenacious partner, of course. She had to raise her gaze from the floor as she curtsied for him, and then they stepped forward to meet in the middle to the pace of a jaunty, little song. 

Jane watched their feet, only looking up to make sure her hands met their mark when they were deigned to meet.

Their hands met in a clasp and then they were stepping apart. When they met again in the middle, he lifted his arm to twirl her under it. 

“You’ll have to tell me,” he said.

Step, clasp, step, twirl.

“Tell you what?” she murmured as their faces passed, ships in the night under the bough of his arm.

They stepped back. The next part of the dance required them to step across their established path to the person next to them’s partner, in another step-clasp, and so she had to wait to hear Gilbert’s answer. She and a gentleman who at first glance, she’d thought was Feliciano, but upon closer inspection, turned out to be certainly _not_ him met in the middle, circling each other in as intimate a space as one would get with a stranger – as dances encouraged.

In the same circle of strangers, she found herself, one hand in the middle and stepping in a circle; not-Feliciano and two others she hadn’t met walking with her.

When the circle dispersed, she found herself returning to Gilbert in another twirl. This dance was more complicated than the last one; Gilbert’s arm was steady though, determined not to let her lose her way.

He still hadn’t answered her; the twirl was just a bridge to resume the same circle-step with another quadrant of strangers. Jane endured another few measures of anticipation before she and Gilbert met in the middle and paired off, walking forward a few steps, matching each other’s strides.

“You must tell me, what’s so interesting about the floor. It certainly must be something if it’s captured your attention for so long.”

They split, stepping quickly along the outside progression of steppers to find their spots across from one another once more at what might have been perceived as the back of the line. There were another curtsy and bow.

“Why,” Jane said, sounding innocent. “Of course, it’s true. Have you not gotten a chance to appreciate your own floors?”

When they rose, everyone clapped twice, signifying the end of the first part of the dance. 

The second part began with a similar step to meet in the middle of where they’d peered over at each other from their respective lines, only this time, they were to raise their arms, crossing them, curled up so that their palms almost met in the twining grasp that lovers might.

From such a distance, she could’ve counted his fair eyelashes if she’d lingered there for a longer time.

“I have,” he whispered, his lips curving into a sly smile. They stepped apart. When they met again, he continued. “Though, such a story is probably not suitable for when one is trying to win the admiration of a lady such as yourself.”

They stepped out, then in again, their arms curling around each other.

“By the way, how am I doing on that?”

The next time they met in the middle, they took a turn about each other.

“Doing on what?”

Gilbert chuckled low. They stepped back and met in the middle.

“Are you impressed yet?”

“Oh, certainly, I’m impressed.” Jane kept her lips pinched coyly together. “The company you keep is _most_ impressive of all.”

She had intended to tease him about Mr. Jones earlier, but he didn’t take the bait. They did another turn about each other and now when they stepping in to meet, both hands clasped, bringing them together, nearly chest to chest.

“I’m not surprised you think so, though I can’t argue with you. After all, look who I got to dance with me?”

Jane looked up at him, her lips quirked into a tentative little smile.

They stepped back and met again in the middle. His hands were warm in hers, even with the gloves. Up close, he was rather fine-boned. The way he peered at her down the bridge of his nose brought faint stirrings of butterflies in her gut. 

Her mind blanked, and then she found herself slightly out of step with the other dancers. She hurried to catch up stepping back, not taking a beat to rest at the starting position so that she was completely in-time with the others when they stepped in to meet on one last occasion.

He was handsome, she realized, more so when he was quiet, and maybe occasionally when he spoke. She lingered now and the lines separated. She and Gilbert remained, holding on to each other in the center. 

She searched his face; his eyes were somewhere distant, somewhere over her shoulder, at some point, far off in the room. The heat of his skin was the most real thing about him then and there.

That is until the music came to a graceful finish and the dancers and spectators applauded around them, whisking the fragile, tenuous moment away.

Jane wasn’t sure what exactly had garnered Gilbert’s attention, but she’d felt quite sure it was safe to pull her hands from his; delightful as it was, he seemed preoccupied. Perhaps Mr. Jones’ offer to dance still stood.

The slip of her hands over his seemed to pull him from whatever had briefly snatched his attention; before Jane could entirely take her leave, his hands closed over hers like a trap.

“I saw you dancing with Mr. Wang earlier.”

Jane’s brow lifted, surprised her earlier dance had come up.

“You did?“

“I seldom wait for others,” Gilbert said, which was obvious, though Jane was rather surprised he was admitting so openly to it. “And I’ve never seen Mr. Wang dance ever. You must be some woman.”

“I might be,” Jane said, and she couldn’t help but smile for real.

Some woman - try _any_ woman, Jane certainly didn’t know the difference.

The floor erupted into disarray as excited new dancers struggled to get aligned in time for the next song.

“Miss…Jane, I know Mr. Jones was left with the hope of having the next dance with you, but I must ask you if there’s any chance I could take it for myself.”

Gilbert turned to look back at where they’d left Francis and Mr. Jones. 

Jane laughed without looking back; in her head, Mr. Jones was squirming.

Jane had wanted to dance with Mr. Jones.

“You may have the next dance,” she told Gilbert.

They danced; a different dance from the first one, but Jane couldn’t tell – she was light as air all the same.

After the third dance, she’d stopped keeping count, and Gilbert stopped asking. They turned like they were the moving parts in a music box. Jane couldn’t stop laughing and smiling. For a moment, she'd forgotten that she wasn’t actually Jane.

Her head was full of the feel of Gilbert against her; his solid stance, the way his eyes moved over her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

When they’d meet, his grip burned her. Even in the breath of space between them, she felt the warmth of him suffuse and fill it. It was as if his entire being refused to let her be without him.

While at first, she’d felt herself warm under Mr. Jones’ vigilant stare from across the room, by the sixth or seventh dance, she was so accustomed to it, that it was no more differentiable than the feeling of her gown against her skin or a stray lock of hair fallen across her forehead.


	7. Chapter 7

They danced until their feet ached, and then took a few intermittent breaks to get some drink, in the hopes that the heat of inebriation might singe away the twinge and throb of their poor muscles. The trade-off of this was that while the drink certainly made it so they couldn’t feel their feet, they also couldn’t feel their hands or the thoughts that slipped through their empty, lubricated little heads like water off duck feathers.

They lost a beat or two in one song, and then soon the whole of songs started to get away from them, until Jane and Gilbert were stumbling around, breaking line on the dancefloor, leaning heavily on the other and laughing at nothing – or maybe _everything_ – in particular.

Gilbert was the host, so no one dared raise a fuss about his slip in decorum.

“Janie,” he said, his speech slurred. 

She wasn’t paying attention to that though; she was too charmed by the sparkle in his eyes.

“Dancing with you is in such fun – but come, let’s take a break. There are some other acquaintances I’d have you meet before the night ends.”

In retrospect, it was any wonder that Gilbert managed to steer them to someone he could recognize (and a great wonder to that of how he seemed to recognize anyone in his state.) Still, with Jane tightly at his arm, he brought them over to one of the windows, where a young man was sitting, the only sign of seriousness in the whole room. 

Flanking him on one side, was another young man Jane had not yet met, his hair dark and glossy – not unlike Mr. Wang’s, with eyes that gleamed as mysteriously as the windows did when looking out on a dark night. On the other side, was a face Jane recognized quite well.

“Feliciano!” 

She beamed unapologetically, her drunkenness making her unrestrained.

Feliciano seemed happy enough though and was able to match her excitement.

“Jane! So good to see you again! I saw you dancing tonight - _bellissima!_ Absolutely beautiful!”

In her excitement, she let go of Gilbert to reach for Feliciano. 

Luckily, the other man was not only practiced, but enthused by public displays of affection, and welcomed the beacon of warmth among the valley’s stuffy, chaste affections.

He caught her seamlessly and pressed a kiss to either side of her cheek. 

Jane’s face warmed mirthfully.

“Have you danced yet? You really ought to, there’s no shortage of handsome ladies here, it really would be a shame if anyone passed the night without dancing.”

“ _Sì,_ of course, you’re absolutely correct, _bella_. I promise I’ll go and dance soon, so save me one, yes?”

Gilbert, not liking the fact that Jane had moved her attention from him to Feliciano, reached over to clap the other man heartily on the arm.

“What are you all crowding around here for? Janie’s right – there’s a whole world of lovely bachelorettes out there, just waiting for you. Ludwig-“ Gilbert’s voice grew snappish. “You can’t just keep your companions in a corner with you and sulk; get out there and dance!”

The one called Ludwig, who was perfectly fair and handsome, with Gilbert’s same fine-boned features, sent the man a sharp look.

“I’m _not_ sulking, I’m just taking a moment to take it all in.”

"Take it all in? Good God man, we live here. If you haven't taken it all in by now, I shouldn't think you ever will."

Jane dipped into a curtsy, remembering herself and that she hadn’t met this man’s acquaintance yet.

“Ah, I’m-“

“This is my Janie,” Gilbert interrupted, resting his arm at her back now the way men did and she so loathed. “The one Franny wanted me to meet so badly.”

Jane flushed a bit, feeling terribly improper in front of Ludwig’s much more sensible stare.

“Jane Doe, it’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.”

If he found her name odd, he gave no indication of it. Ludwig stood and gave a short bow.

“I’m Ludwig Beilschmidt – the _other_ Mr. Beilschmidt as you might have gathered. The pleasure is all mine.”

“Oh!” From beside Mr. Beilschmidt, Feliciano’s face lit up the way only his seemed to do. 

“Jane, this is the Mr. Honda I spoke to you about at dinner the other night – he’s the one living with the Beilschmidts; he’s become a most coveted friend of mine during our time in the valley together. He’s a skilled artist too!”

Jane looked to Mr. Honda with interest, who was already staring at her, with a peculiar look in his eyes – it reminded Jane of how Mrs. Edelstein had looked at her earlier. She met Mr. Honda’s gaze and upon realizing that he was found out, the man seemed to flush – maybe out of Jane’s notice, maybe out of his friend’s praise.

“Well, Mr. Honda, it’s a great pleasure to meet you too.”

She curtsied and was met with another bow.

“Ah, yes, and you as well Miss…Doe, was it?”

Jane’s lips quirked up into a coy little smile. 

“It was.”

“Feliciano,” Gilbert cut in, swaying a little on his feet. Feliciano’s hands were on Gilbert with surprising quickness, trying to steady him. 

“Hm?”

“Tell me – how do you like staying with the Edelsteins?”

“Oh! It’s grand! They’ve been so kind to me and-“

“And…Mrs. Edelstein,” Gilbert said with a heavy breath, sagging in Feliciano’s grasp. “Is she…well?”

“Well? Why, of course, she’s-“

“You must tell me, Feliciano – is she happy?”

Jane was struck by the way Feliciano looked at Gilbert and for a moment, sobering clarity pierced through the fog of inebriation. Feliciano was a kind man coaxing a very drunk one into emotional repose – at least for tonight, at his party.

“Yes, quite so.”

Ludwig looked up to look at his older brother, his brow furrowing into something that softened his expression. Jane could only wonder at that.

Gilbert sighed, his face melancholic; his drunkenness had burned through the ‘happy glow’ phase and seemed to be transitioning into the sorrow of dying embers flickering under his fair skin.

Feliciano gave Gilbert’s arm a squeeze, looking sympathetic but not at all surprised – this too, struck Jane.

Mr. Honda and Ludwig shifted where they stood, moving a lot for men who didn't seem to be moving at all. How distressing this sudden mood was!

Jane wanted none of that, especially at a party. She cleared her throat with all the command a lady could be allowed.

“So then, Mr. Honda, you’re an artist?”

“That’s right, Miss Doe.”

“A painter?”

“That is correct, though I’ve been known to sketch a bit too for my own personal enjoyment and practice.”

Jane looked pleased.

“For both practice _and_ enjoyment? Mr. Honda, you must dread an idle moment if it’s your work that you attribute both your happiness and skill to.”

Mr. Honda’s cheeks pinkened.

“Ah, I wouldn’t dare argue against you, Miss Doe. That’s kind of you to say.”

“You know, I’m rather fond of art,” Jane said. “I’d love to see some of your work.”

Mr. Honda’s lips curved into a modest smile.

“Truly? I would be honored to show you. Name the day and I’ll ensure I’m at your disposal.”

“Thank you,” Jane smiled back. “I think I rather will.”

It was a warm moment, what with the music, the lights, and the cozy circle their little group had formed by the window, broken only as Gilbert swayed in Feliciano’s grip and let out a sickly groan.

Ludwig sighed and reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, sort of like how Francis did when he got one of his headaches.

“Gilbert, shall we go? You don’t look well at all.”

Gilbert had sagged so that his forehead was rested at Feliciano’s shoulder.

“Mind yourself; I look better than-“ he hiccupped “- all of you combined.”

His words slurred like someone had taken a butter knife and smeared them together as they came out.

“ _Sì, sì,_ you are, you are _._ But, my friend, I’m afraid I’m not feeling well. Would you mind terribly if you were to come to the kitchen with me? 

So I could get some water and maybe a bit of bread for my stomach?”

Feliciano had taken to holding Gilbert up with one arm, and had the other around his back, rubbing gently. Jane was surprised to see such tact on him, but not at all to see such warmth. 

Gilbert hiccuped again and grumbled something unintelligible. Feliciano seemed to take this as acceptance at least.

“I thank you for that,” Feliciano started to lead Gilbert away, shooting the rest of them a lingering, reassuring smile as he went.

With Feliciano and Gilbert went the ease of talking and any direction their conversation had up to that point developed. Jane stood with Mr. Honda and Ludwig a few moments, while throughout the room, people danced and mingled excitedly.

Jane looked around, her head still a bit light and cloudy from drinking. Still, though, the ache in her feet was anything but noticeable, and she did so much want to return to dancing.

She looked longingly out at the dancefloor and felt relief when she didn’t see Mr. Wang with anyone else. Upon further inspection, he was huddled against one of the columns off to the side, by Mr. Braginsky.

Jane entertained the idea of crossing over to strike up a conversation once more, though she had no doubt the latter would’ve protested the notion if society would’ve been willing to turn a blind eye to the small transgression.

When Jane was about to leave, Ludwig cleared his throat again. 

Both Jane and Mr. Honda looked up, surprised at the sudden break in silence.

“You’ll have to forgive my brother,” Ludwig finally said. “He really is quite, ah, taken with you, he’s just…overwhelmed.”

Jane’s lips twitched.

“I understand. If I had drunk as much to drink as he did, I would be 'overwhelmed' too.”

Ludwig appeared to wilt at her response, his hand coming up to rub tiredly at the back of his neck. Jane suspected that even if he was technically the younger brother, watching after the older Mr. Beilschmidt was a fulltime job.

Jane cleared her throat.

“I must say though, that you host a fine ball. I’m sure I don’t only speak for myself when I say I’m having a wonderful time and that your home is beautiful.”

Ludwig gave a small smile at this.

“Coming from someone who lives at Yeatlor, that’s quite the compliment. 

Thank you.”

Jane rather liked his smile. She got the feeling that it seldom took on as honest a quality as it did now. She held onto this moment as tightly as she could without breaking it, though something had to.

“HEY!”

Jane startled at this disruption, though between the dancing and the chatting, only a few others did.

At first, she thought Feliciano had returned in a fit of uncharacteristic rage, but upon further inspection, it wasn’t Feli at all – this man had a hardened edge to his brow, his hair, a bit darker. It was the man she'd seen earlier while dancing.

“Oi, you bastard – I’m asking after the whereabouts of my slow brother. He’s disappeared on me again and I-“

Jane couldn’t help how her brow lifted at such brazen language, and when the owner of such speech noticed her, his demeanor shifted at once. 

The way he noticed her wasn’t special, or with the spark that came with something that inspired new feelings – he noticed her with the practice physicians noticed someone ailing; he knew what to look for, had seen his fair share of pretty faces, and like a physician, he acted once he made his diagnosis.

Jane was already suspicious of this new man’s motives as he bowed to her; still, he had the same agreeable face as Feliciano, with eyes she couldn’t help but admire. She let him take her hand and kiss the back of it.

Ludwig cleared his throat.

“Mr. Vargas, were you not just looking for your brother?”

“Forget him! I wasn’t invited just so I could follow him around all night.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Vargas, but if memory serves me right, you weren’t actually invited at all.”

This fell on deaf ears. There was a more pressing detail Jane wanted to get to.

“Mr. Vargas?” she asked. “Could it be you’re related to Feliciano?”

A wounded look crossed Mr. Vargas’ face.

“Please _bella_ , you mustn’t hurt me like that! I’m the more handsome, more reliable Mr. Vargas – but someone as lovely as yourself may refer to me as Lovino.”

Jane laughed a little at this – motives be damned, consider herself charmed. The flush at Lovino’s face mirrored that of hers and was also probably caused by the smooth readiness of the ball’s wine.

She curtsied.

“I’m Jane.”

“Then Jane, would you do a poor man the honor of having a dance with him?”

Again, Jane delicately fit her hand in his, which he, again, pressed a chaste kiss to the back of.

“Poor? I should think you wealthy in a great many areas, even if not in money.”

“With you on his arm, a man could hardly ask for more.”

How dreadfully gaudy. Jane relished it.

“Well, I could never leave anyone wanting.”

Jane gripped Lovino’s hand back and from the corner of her eye, she thought Ludwig looked as if he’d gained ten years in two minutes. 

Perhaps he was just that sort though – some people looked like they were born at twenty years, and aged by the headache.

The thought was fleeting, left behind with the man who’d taken his seat again by the window and Mr. Honda, as Lovino whisked Jane away to the dancefloor.

-

Lovino proved to be a more skillful dancer than either of his predecessors that evening. While Jane had thought she and Gilbert had reached new heights, with only the wine to make them sodden and drag them back down to earth, Lovino was so light on his feet he had them stepping on clouds.

His hands were warm and firm in hers, his face a captivating welcome from each turn and step, the gap between their lines, stretching miles. The man was magic; Jane determined this after the first dance. She couldn’t count them; she didn’t have time to. She’d stepped into his waiting arms and then suddenly it was dawn.

She had sobered up somewhere in between him asking her to dance and the music stopping. The sun had come up as well, leaking pale light from its pink-streaked sky. Her feet didn’t ache at all – she could scarcely remember she had them.

Francis finally came to fetch her for the carriage home, and there could’ve been no greater tragedy; Lovino walking her to the coach, both of her hands wrapped tightly in his. 

Every few steps he’d raise one of her hands to his lips to kiss the backs.

“Oh, _amore_ ,” he’d croon, a little drunk himself – though maybe not entirely of wine. “Write to me – you must. I’ll be counting the hours and minutes, planning for our reunion.”

“Oh, Lovi,” Jane sighed.

Gilbert, Ludwig, and Feliciano had been tailing them, escorting the last of their guests out like the gentlefolk they were but had since dropped off. Last Jane had seen Gilbert, he’d been hunched over by the manicured bushes in front of his house, Feliciano huddled by him, his hand on the older man’s lurching frame. Feliciano made all sorts of faces though he never left his companion.

Truthfully, Jane hadn’t thought of writing but felt the pang in her chest all the same as Lovino relinquished her to Francis, waiting only a little patiently in the carriage.

She held onto Lovino’s hands until the carriage started moving and broke their hold. The carriage bumped into motion; the way seemed much more uneven after one had been sucking down wine for the past eight hours. Jane was willing her stomach to behave as she waved at Lovino.

“I’ll write you every day!” she vowed.

She didn’t see Francis roll his eyes from beside her.

“Be careful of that one, _ma chère_. Don’t let his words fool you, pretty as they are.”

“He’s an absolute poet,” Jane sighed.

“His heart’s certainly as fickle as one’s.”

Jane laughed and nudged playfully at Francis.

“Oh, don’t be so dour about it. Getting your heart broken is all the rage these days, or haven’t you heard?”

“Are you really so set on running around with Lovino then? What of Gilbert? When I saw you last, you seemed to be getting on fine.”

Jane took out her fan and flitted it daintily about her face, the fever of an impending hangover numbing her to the chill of dawn.

“Last I saw he was busy getting sick on his front lawn.”

Francis twisted in his seat, trying to get a good look at his fallen friend before the sparse underbrush and spotting of woods banished him from sight.

“ _Mon Dieu_ , he is.”

-

Upon arriving back at Yeatlor, the sun had risen, making it properly morning. Jane, feeling the full extent of her night’s worth of dancing now, had wanted nothing more than to dump herself onto her bed, Francis had reassured her that with their usual spot of breakfast, her hangover would be all but forgotten.

Francis was wrong.

Jane sipped her coffee and nibbled on some eggs and toast as much as the churning in her stomach would allow. Then, she went promptly up to her room and found the reprieve of sleep.

She awoke a few hours later, looking not much worse for wear. 

Francis amazingly had rebounded back to his normal self when she found him in the main hall, straightening the cuffs of the jacket he’d changed into.

“Jane! It’s well after noon, surely you can’t just be waking up now.”

“No, no, of course not,” she lied. “I’m here, doing what you are – whatever that is.”

Francis raised an eyebrow, the very portrait of skepticism.

“Then, you’re here to receive the carpenter?”

“Yes, that’s precisely what I’m doing.”

“For the new side table I’m commissioning?”

“Yes, yes! You’ve only told me about it every single day. Now I’m here, as discussed – and I’ll bet you feel silly for expecting the worst of me, as usual.” Jane crossed her arms, relaxing into her fib. “Well, it’s no matter now – I forgive you, of course.”

“Your kindness is a great service to me _ma chère,_ a great service indeed.”

Jane’s hands busied about her person, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and straightening her dress. She turned to face the main entrance, deigned now by her lie to look sufficiently welcoming.

“Only, one thing,” Francis sidled up to her.

It took Jane a few moments to notice that he was watching her rather peculiarly.

“Yes? What is it?”

“It’s not a table I’m commissioning, it’s a cabinet.”


	8. Chapter 8

The carpenter arrived at the agreed-upon time of two o’clock on the dot, alongside Mr. Jones, whose recommendation had brought Mr. Oxenstierna to Francis. Jane’s fingers twisted nervously at some of her stray locks of hair; she should’ve glanced into the mirror before coming down – even if she had really just rolled out of bed, she certainly didn’t want to _look_ it.

If he noticed though, Mr. Jones gave no indication. When he caught her eye, he smiled as boyishly warm as he had the night prior, when they’d met.

“Miss Doe, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Ah, was it?

“It’s a surprise, to say the least.”

Mr. Jones chuckled.

“I was sorry to have missed our dance.”

“Me too.”

“Next time then?”

“To be certain.”

Jane shrunk into herself, quiet and as out of sight as she could manage without appearing rude to their guests. This was proven to be rather easily done; Francis led Mr. Oxenstierna around the various points in his home where he’d considered placing his new commission. 

Mr. Jones walked alongside them, chatting extensively about what Mr. Oxenstierna made him and drawing comparisons where initial estimations failed.

A man of great height, as well as great punctuality, Mr. Oxenstierna studied the measurements of the room and listened to Francis’ ideas. Jane followed the troupe around, Mr. Oxenstierna’s quiet nature and inquisitive stare having the rest of them at his heels like hounds as he surveyed the rooms Francis had ventured putting the new addition. 

They had circled through the dining room, drawing room, and parlor when finally, Mr. Oxenstierna declared he could make a fine piece to Francis’ specifications for the drawing room. 

“More space here. More use too.”

Mr. Oxenstierna, though a man of few words, was a man of great and measured wisdom. This was accepted by the others in the group without a doubt.

“Then the drawing room it is!” Mr. Jones brought his hands together. 

“Shall we discuss design then? And size? Mr. Bonnefoy, have you any coffee to see us through such discussion? Mr. Oxenstierna, you do like coffee, don’t you?”

Mr. Oxenstierna gave a short nod with an even shorter grunt.

Jane knew full well that Yeatlor was never without coffee, and so as Mr. Jones and Francis went to go and fetch it, Jane found herself alone with the seemingly impenetrable Mr. Oxenstierna.

For once, even ‘hello’ seemed like it could be a wrong conversational maneuver. Jane looked about her as if she’d never stepped foot in this room before. When she’d killed almost no time in doing this, her hands came to about her waist, fingers fidgeting, marking the slip of such agonizingly silent seconds.

“So, you’re a carpenter then,” Jane said.

Mr. Oxenstierna sent her an appraising look, one brow lifted. He appeared to be allowing her to retract her silly question. Francis had introduced him as the carpenter, hadn’t he? And indeed, they’d been speaking of an array of wood products Mr. Oxenstierna could craft for the drawing room, hadn’t they?

Jane felt herself shrink further into her skin, like a snail under a shower of salt.

“Of course,” she cleared her throat. “I’d like to hear about what sorts of things you’ve been working on last.”

Silence fell again, and hardly anything else in her life had scared her more.

“You last made something for Mr. Jones, yes? What was it you made for him?”

A drawer. Or a table. 

Or a table with a drawer or something of that degree, which ultimately felt trivial to the other things Mr. Oxenstierna had to say about it. He spoke extensively; Mr. Jones’ commission had been made of mahogany, the sides of the table whimsically done to resemble lutes or harps or something, while still maintaining the popular style for table legs in this day and age. The hardware, Mr. Oxenstierna had chosen artfully, with brass stars on either side of the drawer for handles, and an engraved lock in the center.

“Beautiful piece,” Mr. Oxenstierna said in his baritone, his lips twitching into a small smile. “Almost forgot th’ key.”

They laughed.

Jane had come to understand it then – he didn’t make fanciful pieces of furniture, he was an artist, and his art just so happened to be rather functional in the home. 

“Then, is that what you like about your trade? The beauty of it all?”

Mr. Oxenstierna shook his head. He wasn’t smiling anymore, but his face had lost some of its initial hardness.

“The peace is nice. So's the quiet. There’s room t’ think.”

‘Room to think’. Jane mulled the idea over and felt how cramped it made her own skull when sharing space with the dull throb in her head. It was nice to think of anyhow, the way someone did something, not for pride or money, but for the peace it provided them. Jane couldn’t think of a single thing she did that could serve the same purpose for her.

Jane’s hand idly reached up to find her temple, fingers pressing gently in an attempt to diffuse the tension there.

The small movement didn’t go unnoticed by Mr. Oxenstierna. His eyes zeroed in on the careful press of her fingers.

“Sick?”

“Oh, no, just a bit tired, I think.”

He looked inquisitive.

“Did y’not sleep?”

Jane smiled sheepishly, feeling silly.

“Not last night I didn’t. I spent the whole night dancing.”

And drinking though she didn’t feel much inclined to tell him that part.

“Dancing?”

“Yes, there was a ball at Hyacinth.”

Mr. Oxenstierna’s brow leaped in a way that combined muted outrage with great surprise.

“People are still holdin’ balls? With all that’s going on?”

His question spurred a similar interest in Jane.

“The goings-on – are you referring to-” Jane’s voice lowered without her even noticing. An unsettled hush fell on the room. “The missing women?”

Mr. Oxenstierna grunted and Jane took it for the confirmation it was.

It wasn’t the first time it had come up in conversation, of course, but it was the first time someone had discussed it with her with what appeared to be an earnest concern. Mr. Oxenstierna’s face took on a solemn quality more appropriate for such events than the whispers and speculative gossip previous conversations held.

Still, acknowledging such a fact only further established the gravity of the situation, and even with such gravity, it felt silly to feel afraid in Yeatlor’s drawing room, with the house entertaining guests and sun filtering in through the windows, blending the pale wash of the walls and cloudless sky.

“It really is quite sad,” she said. “Hopefully those two women are returned safely to their families.”

“Two? Is that what they’ve been saying?”

Mr. Oxenstierna’s response sent ice water trickling through her veins.

“Are you saying they’re mistaken?”

Before Mr. Oxenstierna could respond, Mr. Jones manifested in the doorway once again, holding a tray of cups and a pot.

“Jane, how do you take yours? I’m here with the coffee, and Mr. Bonnefoy should be just behind me with the cream and sugar.”

Jane didn’t answer at first, her head was still spinning from what Mr. Oxenstierna had said. Her silence jumped out at Mr. Jones like a specter.

“Jane? Are you alright? You do like coffee, don’t you?”

Jane looked from the taller man to Mr. Jones. Honestly, who could stand to think of coffee right then or ever with all the terrible things happening in the world?

“I, uh-“

Francis arrived in the next instance, holding a smaller tray with cream, sugar, spoons, and saucers.

If Mr. Jones noticed her quiet, then Francis most certainly would’ve. 

A minute or two must’ve passed by now and still, Jane couldn’t for the life of her think of a damned thing to say.

Mr. Oxenstierna cleared his throat.

“Mr. Bonnefoy, have y’picked a color?”

Francis raised his eyebrows and then everyone was looking at Mr. Oxenstierna questioningly.

“Ah – a color?”

“Mm. For the cabinet.”

While Francis seemed contented enough to let the conversation steer towards more casual climes, Mr. Jones, who’d already caught the inkling of a scent of something more interesting before Francis had entered the room, was not.

He gave Jane a knowing look – though there was something decidedly missing in his knowledge.

“How interesting! Tell me, Janie, what could our gallant Mr. Oxenstierna here be trying to change the subject on? Tell us, what sorts of enticing subjects were you two speaking of before we barged in and ruined the conversation?”

Jane could feel Mr. Oxenstierna’s eyes on her; she didn’t dare meet his stare, for doing so would’ve given him up just as well as if she’d spoken plainly. She didn’t understand why exactly Mr. Oxenstierna didn’t want to speak of the missing women in front of Francis and Mr. Jones, but she could sense it was a subject he’d rather quickly depart from, and that was enough for her. She brushed the shadow of his words aside at the present and vowed to ask him again the next time she had him alone.

“I was inquiring about his work,” Jane said.

Mr. Jones was obviously not convinced. Francis seemed to pick up on the fact that something was passing beneath his nose, but it was too late – he’d missed his opportunity to latch onto it the way Mr. Jones had.

“My, I had no idea the lady had such an interest in carpentry.”

Jane smiled serenely.

“I don’t. It’s artistry I have an interest in, which I’m sure you can attest to yourself regarding Mr. Oxenstierna’s work.”

Mr. Jones paused, watching Jane appraisingly before a rueful little smile spread at his lips and a dimple leaped out, dulling the skeptical edge to his expression.

“So I should take that to mean you don’t intend on going into carpentry?”

“That’s exactly it, Mr. Jones. I’d much rather have my hands on material that’s _easier_ to work with.”

Mr. Jones’ brow lifted in surprise and he let out an unbridled, little laugh. Heat blossomed at his cheeks – a sentiment Jane no doubt shared, but felt too proud to show right about then.

Francis cleared his throat louder than he otherwise would’ve if his intent was truly to clear it, as opposed to scolding Jane.

“Right, that’s enough – Jane, thank you for helping me…entertain, but really, Mr. Oxenstierna and I should be getting down to business.”

Francis had skipped right over the warning phase and had gone straight to sentencing; Jane was to be exiled from this particular meeting since she’d proven that straight off a nap, she just simply couldn’t behave. Dulled annoyance flared in her but dissipated just as quickly; he was right, after all.

“Of course,” Jane smiled sweetly and dipped into a curtsy that somewhat sharpened the very innuendo that had gotten her sent away. “It was a pleasure to meet you Mr. Oxenstierna, and a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Jones.”

Jane turned to leave the room, about to resign herself to her room, for perhaps, a stern, punitive nap to try and right her impropriety. Mr. Jones once again had her stopped in her tracks though.

“You’re quite finished with me then too, I take it?” he asked of Francis. 

The other man didn’t answer; he was watching Mr. Jones like he couldn’t trust what came next no matter how he chose to respond.

“Then,” Mr. Jones continued. “I’ll see myself out along with Miss Doe, and we’ll have ourselves a nice walk about the estate while you two finish up your business.”

Francis looked like he wanted to protest, but Mr. Oxenstierna, a punctual and fastidious man, would not waste any more time on such things.

He was already heading towards the table, where they’d earlier set Francis’ tentative ideas and sketches of what the cabinet should look like. 

Francis, never one to be left behind, especially in anything relating to style or decorum, let Mr. Oxenstierna tear his attention from Mr. Jones, and went to join him at the table, with only a last look over his shoulder at the other man in a final attempt to dissuade him from taking Jane to the garden.

Mr. Jones didn’t look like he could’ve been stopped if Francis had challenged him to a duel, much less just off of a pointed stare. He caught up with Jane just outside of the drawing room and offered her his arm. Francis caught one last glimpse their backs passing into the slat of sunlight, let in by the foyer’s large, all-seeing _oeil-de-boeuf._

-

Out of sight, out of mind, it seemed. Out of the spacious room with Mr. Oxenstierna’s troubling implications, Jane felt her every worry be brushed by the sun, any lingering darkness quietly melted away into bits of pappi that floated across them every so often as they followed the path about the Yeatlor gardens.

It was in full bloom this time of year, each vibrant bud and blossom beaming its appreciation for the care and detail Francis had taken in ensuring their success on his estate. He had his own gardener of course, but Francis preferred to tend to the gardens himself when he had time. There was no substitute for love, as he always said, most often with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and a loose tendril of blonde hair falling about his face.

It was easy to forget herself out in the gardens, to forget trouble, and to let herself be charmed by Mr. Jones.

His arm was warm and solid in her grasp, so much so, that she found herself not minding when he revisited topics already tapped of their interest.

“Again, I can’t say how sorry I am that we didn’t get the opportunity to dance,” Mr. Jones’ eyes reflected the deep azure of the sky from behind his glasses.

Jane kept her eyes on the flowers; daisies, lilac, lilies – everything felt young and untarnished, even with the grim news that had been splashed across their morning papers as of late.

“If you really hold so much regret, then perhaps it’s I who should be apologizing.”

“Now, don’t be so hasty – I’d say things worked out for me in the end.” 

Mr. Jones looked at her, and Jane couldn’t resist humoring his stare for but a moment before she was forced to look away. There were roses too it seemed, the buds hidden in her cheeks rather than in the bushes along the walkway. “I do get my very own private audience with you now.”

They slowed to a gentle stop and Mr. Jones reached down to snap a bud from its stem and tuck it gently behind her ear. Francis would’ve had his head for that; the thought had Jane liking the gesture even more.

She met Mr. Jones’ gaze a little shyly again before breaking away into a soft laugh, her hand coming up to daintily hide her mouth before she showed teeth.

“You know, Mr. Jones, you never did tell me whereabouts you came from.”

They had restarted their meandering pace.

“Out of town," he admitted. "Though I find myself coming out to the valley more and more these days.”

“Really now?” 

This had piqued Jane’s interest. Unless people lived here themselves or had family and friends in the area, there wasn’t much the valley could offer them with its cluster of privately owned estates. Jane had never heard of a ‘Mr. Jones’ until the night prior, at the ball. 

“And what, might I ask, brings you here?”

Mr. Jones laughed. 

“It’s nice out here. Are you really so suspicious of my motives?”

Jane made a face.

“It’s…full of the wealthy and snobbish and you don’t seem either to me.”

At once, and for the first time, Jane found herself completely mortified at herself. 

“Pardon me, I forget myself, I only meant-“

Mr. Jones was already waving her off, that boyish grin on his face again, making him at once timeless and forever twenty and two.

“While I admit, I’m neither wealthy – nor as I’d like to think – ‘snobbish’ as you so colorfully put it. I do have some reasons of my own to come to the valley, do I not?” 

He looked at her, and suddenly his blue eyes had an edge to them that had an unseasonable heat licking at her from the inside. “I do have a reason to come to the valley, don’t I, Janie?”

“I-, well-“ 

They had stopped again, and a good thing too, because suddenly, Jane felt as if she were chasing her breath at a million paces a minute. Mr. Jones was watching her, his eyes reflecting the answer she already knew she’d relay. 

Jane cleared her throat and looked away, her cheeks itching.

“If you were to continue to make regular trips to the valley, I wouldn’t be opposed, and,” she swallowed. “I daresay you would not be disappointed neither.”

Mr. Jones was still smiling, but it was different now. His eyes seemed less certain, no longer trained on her, but on the flowers they passed. What secrets were the daffodils telling today? 

They met Mr. Oxenstierna and Francis back by the house when they’d finished their lap through the gardens. The other men had finished their business, and now the carriages were being called to take Mr. Oxenstierna and Mr. Jones back to town, where their lodgings were.

At the sound of horses hooves, Mr. Jones had taken one of Jane’s hands and raised it to his lips.

“I’m so very grateful you were at Yeatlor today to accommodate me,” he said, and now when he smiled, it felt secret and just for her. “I most enjoyed our turn about the garden. 

Please, Janie, take care of yourself until I see you next.”

Jane giggled, ignoring the daggers Francis was staring their way.

“Will that be long?”

“Certainly not. I couldn’t bear it.”

It was almost sorrowful when Mr. Jones released her to go bid a proper goodbye to Francis – a handshake in which both men seemed to be competing for the longevity and intensity of the hold. Both were simultaneously winning and losing, by the looks of it.

Jane went to bid Mr. Oxenstierna farewell.

The dark from their earlier conversation, which had left her in the gardens, returned now with the stormy seas churning in his eyes. He bowed low, and she curtsied to match. 

She expected him to address it first, but when he did not, she found herself reaching out to catch the crook of his arm as he turned towards the second coach that pulled up.

“Wait,” she whispered as dust turned up from the horses’ hooves. “What did you mean about the women?”


	9. Chapter 9

Mihail had finished loading the drawings from their meeting into the coach and was opening the door for Mr. Oxenstierna to climb in. If there had been a moment for truth, then that moment had passed for now.

Mr. Oxenstierna kept his eyes on her; Jane couldn’t for the life of her understand what it meant, other than the next time she saw him, she’d have to press again. 

She committed herself to this, embossed it on the inside of her skull, and then Mr. Oxenstierna wasn’t looking at her anymore but at Francis. He cleared his throat.

“Mr. Bonnefoy, I’ll finish within the fortnight. Shall I deliver it then?”

Francis nodded.

“That suits me just fine.”

“I'settled then.”

They shook on it.

Mr. Oxenstierna turned once more to Jane and gave a bow.

“Miss Doe, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

She caught his stare as he did so and felt the silent vow she took earlier settle in her.

“And you as well. I’ll see you again soon.”

-

Word got around the valley quickly, and so when Yeatlor received word that a new family had settled there, Francis and Jane could be assured that most likely, the dust had scarcely cleared from their coaches by the time they’d heard of it. 

Such correspondences denoting new arrivals held surprisingly little with regard to the families themselves; Jane pored over the letter from over Francis’ shoulder and found only that the family’s name was Arlovsky, and that they had two daughters.

Apparently, that was all they needed to know in order for Francis to decide that the next appropriate move was to pay the Arlovsky family a visit.

“We can’t just show up,” Jane said, with a face that looked as if she’d been struck over the head by a rock.

“Of course we can. In fact, it is expected. To not go at all would be no better than to spit on the ground they walk on, _ma chère.”_

“But we don’t know them. Isn’t it of greater insult to barge in on them as strangers?”

“Visiting them is how we stop being strangers, Jane.”

“But to just… _show_ up-“

“You technically just showed up when we met,” Francis pointed out.

Jane and Francis watched each other, his eyes clear but his brow triumphant. 

It was settled. 

Francis called a coach and then they were off and on their way to Crystal Lake to meet its new owners.

-

The estate was smaller than Yeatlor, but no less immaculately decorated, with a dark blue motif that had the gold trim and accents looking more regal than the light wash and wood where Francis lived.

Like them, the Arlovskys had a servant greet them at the door and bring them in. Unlike them, the Arlovskys liked to receive their guests in the parlor, rather than the drawing room. Francis and Jane were announced (“ _One Mr. Bonnefoy and Miss Doe to see you Mr. Arlovsky,”)_ and then led to sit on furniture that looked so ornate, Jane was almost afraid she’d soil it with the light silk of her dress. 

She tried to make up for this small discomfort by smiling amiably, if not perhaps a little pinched, from beside Francis.

The Arlovskys were as stately looking as their décor; Mr. Arlovsky was a stern-looking man, his bone structure and eyes sharp enough that his brown curls were allowed to remain somewhat disheveled without the loss of any respectability. His hair was shot with silver, his facial hair and thick sideburns grizzled as if he felt just as at home in the woods as he did in his house. He surprised Francis and Jane by shaking the latter's hand too when they met.

Mrs. Arlovskaya looked to be her husband’s opposite in appearance, but equal in magnitude, with skin that looked so delicate, Jane was of the belief that she’d never taken a fall in her life, lest she shatter into a thousand pieces. Her eyes had the same cutting, icy quality as her husband, though her face was softened considerably by the tendrils of ashy, blonde hair coiffed neatly around her face. 

Her poise was trimmed in gold like most things in the house; the demure quality of her personality, sparkling like port in crystal. No part of her was gaudy but no part of her washed out either. If she was quiet, it made others quiet themselves so that they might lean in to listen more carefully as opposed to talking over her with more ease.

The two Arlovskaya girls looked about Jane’s age and looked to take after their mother a lot. The same blue eyes (a family legacy gilded in blood, it would seem) and fair hair. The younger one, a slight young woman, who didn’t look to be sturdy stock until one was forced to hold eye contact with her, was called Natalya. She did not smile back at Jane.

The other, taller, and with a frame that called to the gaze despite the dainty elegance of her dress, was called Katyusha. 

She was much more agreeable, and Jane found herself defaulting to her when she felt a lag in the conversation, or when Mrs. and Miss Arlovskaya’s stares chased hers away.

While Jane had planned on letting Francis do most of the talking, it seemed her role in the conversation could not be done away with entirely. The embarrassment itching beneath Jane’s skin was fed by Mrs. Arlovskaya’s eyes on her.

“And are you out, Miss Doe?”

This was a complicated sort of question; could Jane truly, officially be out if she had no family to marry into? Did Francis count? He was much too young to have daughters to marry off, and yet, Jane _had_ become a sort of ward to him and he _had_ tried to set her up with Gilbert. 

The thought of Francis as a father-like figure made it difficult to compose her expression; even to call him a ‘brother’ felt wrong. 

While it’s true, they’d become quite close in her months at Yeatlor, and he had become something of a protector, there was both a lacking and an abundance of things that muddled the relationship past that of what could’ve made him father or brother to her. He was a man in her life and an important one at that. 

She cared greatly for him, of course, though she’d never say such things aloud.

Jane went with the quick and uncomplicated answer for the sake of her sanity.

“Yes,” she smiled and ignored Francis’s face, “I’m out.”

Mrs. Arlovskaya smiled back, and the mood got no less chilly.

“How wonderful – my girls are as well, and at the same time too. That might make for some good companionship when circumstances allow.”

“Yes, Mrs. Arlovaskaya, I should think so.”

The older woman got a certain look about her eye, and at once, Jane felt her stomach pit inside of her.

“I must ask; Miss Doe, Mr. Bonnefoy is your…cousin?”

“No, madam.”

“Uncle then?”

“That shouldn’t be so either.”

Mrs. Arlovskaya’s brow lifted in surprise, even though Jane strongly suspected very little could surprise or shock her at all.

“Forgive me – it all just seems a bit…unconventional; a young woman, single and out, living with an unwed man, an eligible bachelor by all accounts, it’s…”

Jane squirmed uncomfortably in her seat. 

Luckily, Francis came to her rescue next.

“Mm, perhaps, _madame_ , it is not in the favor of popular opinion, but Jane has become a dear companion to me and that is all. One shouldn’t read anymore into it than that. Though,” his lips twitched into a rueful little smile. “I know it is naïve to think people won’t.”

“A companion…” Mrs. Arlovskaya said, carefully but not the least bit innocently. “A companion but…not a wife?”

“No, _madame_ , not a wife.”

“Or a…paramour?”

Mr. Arlovsky set his hand at his wife’s – a gesture of restraint; even Francis could not hide his outrage at her remark.

“Certainly not! I should ask you not to refer to Miss Doe in such a…an appalling way again.”

The previous comment would’ve stung more had Jane not still been stuck on Francis’ declaration of ‘that is all.’ He said 'all', and yet the way he said it, made it sound suspiciously like 'nothing'.

Mrs. Arlovskaya’s lips turned up into a smile that looked like it was painted on to her alabaster face.

“Forgive me,” she said again, though its use was already cheapened at her lips. “I only ask Mr. Bonnefoy to ensure your place as a single man – I have two handsome, charming daughters here. You must pardon the mother in me; it has made me prone to spells of impropriety on their behalves when the instinct takes me.”

Mrs. Arlovskaya hardly looked at Jane now, and though she knew it was intended as an insult, Jane felt some sensation return to her toes now that she could evade the frost of the madam’s stare.

“It’s forgotten,” Francis returned thinly. “Let’s not speak of it again.”

Mrs. Arlosvskaya and Natalya seemed to welcome this sentiment as ‘let’s not speak of Jane again’ and so the amiable politeness of Miss Arlovskaya’s demeanor felt like a welcome spring to thaw the chill of her mother and sister, meanwhile winter closed in on Francis.

“I’m sorry about them.”

The voice was light and soft, like a summer rain passing through. Jane had scarcely thought she’d heard it.

“Really, they’re not so bad. My mother worries my sister and I will become spinsters – she spoke truthfully when she said she was prone to ‘spells’. I ask that you not judge them too harshly.”

Jane looked up at Miss Arlovskaya.

“It’s quite alright. As Mr. Bonnefoy said, ‘all is forgotten.’”

Miss Arlovskaya’s lips curved up into a rueful, little smile.

“Men forget rather quickly, do they not? I daresay it’s different for us, who are sentenced to a life of empty-headedness save for ribbon colors and keeping the home.”

Miss Arlovskaya’s response surprised Jane – but it was a welcome one. There was something oddly comforting, if not familiar by the spark evoked by her words; kindred spirits gathered at a fire.

“You’d be right to say such things.”

Jane found herself returning the other woman’s smile.

Beside her, Francis had become statuesque under the full intensity of both Mrs. Arlovskaya and Natalya’s gazes as the older woman probed deeper into his affairs. Jane certainly didn’t pity the man.

Miss Arlovskaya caught Jane’s eye again, well out of the line of fire from her mother and sister.

“Miss Doe, would you by any chance be interested in a tour of the house?”

Usually, Jane and Francis stuck together when drawn into social engagements, but here, she wasn’t sure she had any assistance to offer him, nor was she sure she could put herself between him and the Arlovsky women.

“A tour sounds lovely.”

Miss Arlovskaya and Jane rose silently, drifting from where they’d sat and from the room like phantoms, their pale gowns only adding to the effect. Mrs. Arlovskaya and Natalya paid them the attention of skeptics. Francis appeared almost clairvoyant as he watched Jane leave.

Through the first set of double doors, which Miss Arlovskaya shut quietly behind them, was what Jane guessed was the drawing room. This room was done in a pleasant floral wallpaper, set with several ornate screens folded by the fireplace, and vases stocked with vibrant blooms on each of the tables. It was cheerier than the parlor, and now, with just Miss Arlovskaya and she, Jane felt she could breathe much easier.

“The drawing room,” Miss Arlovskaya said, her lips still in that same cattish smile. 

Jane was beginning to think the air of mischief a constant companion to the other woman. 

She looked homely, domestic; the portrait of a maiden come to life, and eventually, the portrait of a wife and dutiful lady of the house. Her lips rebelled against this with girlish sprightliness, hiding their wily giggles from behind the dainty flutter of a gaudy fan.

“It’s lovely,” said Jane.

“Isn’t it?” Miss Arlovaskaya went by the window, her fingers stroking the trim with reverence. “I’ve always been fond of drawing rooms. I like the idea of a place where women can retreat. It feels like one of the few places we run completely by ourselves, even in our husband’s home.”

Jane wasn’t certain she felt a similar sense of safety in this room; after all, Mrs. Arlovskaya and Natalya would probably be frequenting this space. Jane probably would’ve felt more at ease if it had just been Mr. Arlovskaya, even if he did think her no better suited for anything other than perhaps having a set of strapping sons.

Out of nowhere, Jane thought of her conversation with Charlotte a couple of days back, prior to the ball. Jane had thought of Yeatlor as a palace; the whole estate was freedom for her, especially without her memories to hold her back. While certainly, this was an issue in itself, she couldn’t deny that being a blank slate was…light. Buoyant almost, especially when she was safely in the hands of a wealthy benefactor. 

Was Yeatlor in fact the opposite for Charlotte? 

Was she condemned to a house that could never be home to her, stranded in a place and among people with whom she'd never belonged?

Jane followed Miss Arlovskaya out of the drawing room and up some stairs. They must’ve had an impressive staff to have their home already settled so quickly; they passed several decorative tables with vases that gleamed even in the low light. The pictures on the walls looked as if they’d been homed there for years, rather than days.

They reached a dead-end where there were two sets of doors; one closer and to the left, the other, a bit farther down and at the wall on the right. Miss Arlovskaya gestured towards these but didn’t venture towards them.

“Mother’s room is to the right, father’s is to the left.”

Jane’s brow lifted.

“They sleep in separate rooms?”

Jane hadn’t even realized she’d asked it until the question left her lips. Francis would’ve all but dragged her out of the house by her hair for asking such a thing. 

Jane was horrified at herself; one hand came up to clamp tightly across her mouth.

Miss Arlovskaya still looked vaguely amused though. 

“They both enjoy their…privacy.”

Just knowing this, Jane felt like she was making a grave intrusion on it.

Upon leaving this area of the house, Jane followed Miss Arlovskaya up another bit of stairs. She realized then, that she’d never bothered to explore Yeatlor past the second floor – what else could there be, other than a myriad of unused bedrooms or vacant storage rooms?

Perhaps Miss Arlovskaya was in the midst of rectifying such a bland assumption this very moment.

Like the hallway they’d come to before, there was another set of doors and Miss Arlovskaya brought them through the closer of the two. 

“This,” she said, opening the door for Jane to step through first. “Is my room.”

The warmth Jane had felt in the drawing room, which she’d attributed to leaving the other Arlovskaya’s in the parlor, grew. 

Miss Arlovskaya’s room was completely done in warm tones; opposite of the rest of the house. 

Her walls were a light wash of pink. There were framed etchings of flowers along the walls, and her vanity was busy with equal parts parchment and equal parts perfumes and other such apothecary items.

Miss Arlovskaya stepped back to let Jane get acclimated to the room, before shutting the door softly behind them.

“We should be able to speak freely here,” she said, and then that playful quirk of her mouth broke again. “So you can be honest if you don’t find the room suitable.”

She knew Miss Arlovskaya was just teasing her, but still, Jane looked around, running her fingers along the polished wood – silky under her touch – making her rounds to view the individual strokes of the flower sketches. She loitered at the vanity, initially for the mirror, but then something else jumped out at her vision from atop the stack of parchment. 

Her eyes picked up the beginnings of the bold, inky characters; ‘ _A CRITIQUE ON THE ROLE OF MARRIAGE…’_ and then Jane’s memory filled in the rest.

She was going to reach for the familiar pamphlet to pick it up, but suddenly Miss Arlovskaya was hastily snatching the stack away, her face having broken its certain demeanor in favor of a somewhat distressed one. 

Where the parchment was removed, revealed a leather-bound journal beneath, fat with the stray pages tucked in between, bursting with sentiments that hadn’t yet been distilled enough in meaning to make it into a pamphlet of their own.

“Pardon me, I really thought I tidied up in here.”

Jane’s hand shot out without thinking, reaching for the pamphlet at the top. 

She and Miss Arlovskaya were caught, the pamphlet, stuck in the middle. 

Jane took this opportunity to let her eyes sweep over the front of it. The first paragraph emerged from the recesses of her mind.

“Wait – yes, I see it now,” she looked up at Miss Arlovskaya. “I’ve read this before.”

Miss Arlovskaya’s smile was back, but without its easy quality – it looked pinched, closer to that of her sister’s.

“Yes, so have I, as you can probably tell.”

Upon closer inspection, Jane turned it around to the second section and found that this copy of the pamphlet was thoroughly scrawled upon in the margins with red ink. Jane could only make out a few of the comments; _taken out of context. Stretched metaphor. Spoken from around a silver spoon!_

The remarks were in response to the editor’s evisceration of the original content – which had in itself been a response to the original (though anonymous) author. Anonymous to others, Jane supposed now. She looked at Miss Arlovskaya, her eyes wide.

A page fluttered down from the stack clamped between her fingers, and though Jane wasn’t familiar with that work, she could see similar notes scrawled all about it, too insightful to be from anyone other than its mother. Her own lips twitched into a little smile.

“So, today I’m making the acquaintance of ‘a lady’, I presume?”


	10. Chapter 10

Miss Arlovskaya’s face, already fair, seemed to blanch further. 

Her skin, already all but porcelain, took on an almost ghastly quality as she struggled to gauge where Jane stood on this matter.

“This…is true,” she finally said. “I am a lady – more specifically, the lady who authored the piece you’ve seen, amongst others of similar subject matter. A _lady_ -“ She paused. 

“-and therefore someone cautious, for the things I say, _these_ things especially, might reflect poorly on my family, should I identify myself by name.”

Jane laughed and the sound startled Miss Arlovskaya.

“’ Reflect poorly’ – I’ll say, you’ve certainly gotten the editor worked up.”

“’ Worked up’ isn’t the half of it.” 

Miss Arlovskaya took the stack of parchment fully in her hands, one arm scooped under the mass of pages while the other took up the top-most pamphlet – the one Jane had read. Miss Arlovskaya was holding it so tightly that her fingers crinkled it as she held it up in front of Jane’s face and gave it a little shake for emphasis.

“The weasel that works at the publication called my work a ‘threat to marriage as an institution’. Tell me, Jane,” Miss Arlovskaya’s face turned icy. “Who would hope to marry someone who thinks like that?”

“Then you _do_ hope to marry?”

“You assumed I wouldn’t?”

Jane backtracked.

“Well, it’s just, you didn’t seem to have a lot of nice things to say about marriage in your pamphlet, so I had assumed-“

“My _mother_ wants me to marry and I…” she sighed. “I want to ease her worries. More than that though, I _might_ want to marry someday. I want options. Choices. Or if I can’t have more, then time to see what all of mine are.” 

She set the paper – all of it – back on her vanity. She had tried to remove it in a hasty getaway, but now it seemed they’d reached a place where it couldn’t do much more harm to leave them out.

“I see.”

They stood in silence for a few moments. Jane thought that maybe the room had gotten just the tiniest bit darker. She looked at Miss Arlovskaya.

“Tell me more.”

-

Again, the hours melted by like wax from candles. Katyusha, as Jane had now come to know her, spent a good hour explaining how she'd started writing anonymously about her ideas, during which, she broke out the stash of wine she hid beneath her bed. From there, it was difficult to keep track of time.

It hadn’t felt long at all before Jane was once again steeped in the pleasant, smothering warmth of inebriation. Her mouth tasted sour and tart with drink and the windows gleamed darkly like obsidian. The room was all warmth now; the pinks catching fire under the flash and glow of the candleflame.

Katyusha looked warm too, her cheeks rosy and her hair slightly mussed. 

The sleeve of her dress had slipped ever so slightly from her shoulder, and Jane reached forward to tug it back into place. Both women looked at each other and then doubled forward, fingers pressed to their lips as they bowed in a fit of hushed laughter.

They were sitting on the floor, their skirts pooled around them like spring puddles. The wine sat in between the two of them, switching between their fingers.

“All my mother wants is for me to be good and settled,” Katyusha sighed. “But I don’t _want_ to be settled.”

“I can understand that.” 

Jane couldn’t fathom what being settled must feel like; history and expectations all resting to anchor a person down someplace under the pretense of duty. She could hardly imagine, in the truest sense of the word.

When a beat of fidgety silence had passed, Jane grinned.

“Women should get together so we don’t have to settle. If we want better, we should stop looking for it elsewhere, and just be better for each other,” Jane mused.

Katyusha giggled and after a moment, Jane joined in.

“I’m being serious,” she insisted.

“You really think that would solve all that vexes us?”

“I think it could solve _some_ of it.” Jane was smiling still, delighting in the curiosity playing at Katyusha’s face. “Trust me on this at least; if I had a fortune that was mine to inherit, I’d marry you in a heartbeat. Francis could shut up about me and Mr. Beilschmidt and you’d have enough money to become your own disagreeable editor. We’d be rather happy in our castle, I think.”

The picture Jane painted was about as probable as the moon being made of cheese, but it seemed to please Katyusha. Her smile regained some of that playfulness Jane had first seen, sleepy as it may have seemed, as it struggled under the weight of the wine.

“Kids?” she asked. “Pets? Horses maybe?”

“Lots,” was all Jane said, and then the two of them collapsed into a fit of giggles again.

“Oh, that does sound like a dream.”

Her eyes found Jane and she knew that Katyusha meant it. They had fallen quiet. Jane’s fingers, which had been nearing the neck of the bottle again, lapsed, seemingly having forgotten what they'd set off to do.

There, with each other, both seemed to be riding the cusp of the realization that there was nowhere else of importance to be. Their minds were stalled, their legs laying around them in disarray beneath their skirts, stockinged toes almost touching.

At an abrupt rap at the door, both women’s shoulders jumped, and in poked Natalya’s head. The soft, lazy, safety of women and wine was shattered.

“Miss Doe, Mr. Bonnefoy is taking his leave.”

-

The ride home was short and quiet, cut shorter and livened up by a particularly nasty divot in the road that sent the coach bumping and the axel, misaligning.

Francis and Jane were in high spirits even as the footman and coach driver apologized profusely, helping them down from the carriage. Francis liked walks and the night was agreeable. 

Jane was thoroughly drunk.

She thought of being alone in the dark like this with Katyusha, of her hand finding hers blindly, with the same certainty Francis’ could.

Their attendants were to see to the matter of the coach; all Francis and Jane had to worry about was getting home. Though dark, the way was familiar - most in the valley lived within a hearty walk's distance of each other, the paths running like veins in the same arm of the wealthy countryside. 

The footman handed off one of the carriage’s lanterns to them so that they might not disappear into the inky night and be lost forever.

Francis took the lantern with the hand that was not monopolized by the familiar feel of Jane at his side, and then they started off. Besides the little kink in their return trip, the path was otherwise smooth – this didn’t by any means prevent Jane from tripping and stumbling, seemingly over her own feet as Francis led them on.

After the third time, even she couldn’t disappear into her foggy thoughts enough to pretend she didn’t notice what utter nonsense she seemed about right then. She giggled and Francis caught a whiff of the wine on her breath.

His grip on her tightened.

“Good God, woman, are you drunk?”

A leery grin spread at Jane’s lips. Her eyes glittered in the low lantern light.

“I’m not,” she said proudly. “You always said that it doesn’t count as ‘drunk’ if you were drinking wine.”

“ _Mon Dieu_.”

They forged ahead, with Francis pausing every few steps to make sure Jane could keep up well enough. Jane leaned into the warmth Francis’ body beside hers provided. 

“Kat believes it too, you know?”

The limitedness of their sight seemed to feed into the infinity of the abyssal night. Jane thought she could hear anything in the world as an echo; she could’ve swept her arm out in front of her and carried the whole star-spangled sky in the palm of her hand. Their breath and voices were sound puppets on a screen.

“Believes what?”

“The pamphlet. In how the more prospects a woman seems to have, the more limited her future looks when forced to operate within the confines of the small-minded men in the area.”

“That again?”

Jane thought back to Katyusha’s room; the walls a warm pink that seemed to blend into the soft glow of her skin as night settled in. The effects of the wine teased the rest of her conversation at the tip of her tongue.

“She read the pamphlet too. She said-“

“Ssh!”

Suddenly, Jane was jolted to a stop. Her knees locked as Francis’ grip yanked her back.

In the bubble of lantern light, Jane could see that Francis’ form was rigid, his face, terse.

“What?” Jane asked, her heart pounding, but her body was too heavy to keep up. Her inebriation hazed at her glassy eyes. She felt like something was just in front of them, lurking at the fringe of the night. “Francis, what is it?”

“Hush, Jane,” Francis murmured, his eyes narrowing. 

He moved the lantern, trying to shed light where before there was none. Jane held absolutely still; every movement Francis made felt like a pull against her. 

She listened as hard as she could, and then she could hear it too – rustling, that after a few moments dissolved into distinct footsteps. 

Francis’ throat twitched.

“Stop. Who goes there?” 

He held the lantern up and released Jane, stepping forward so that she was behind him. 

Jane clutched her wrap tighter around her though she knew the gauzy material offered little protection.

The sound of the footsteps stopped. So did Jane’s heart.

Then out of the darkness stepped none other than the fair visage of Mr. Bondevik alongside another man Jane didn’t recognize.

Francis’ entire body heaved a sigh of relief and his arm dropped from its rigid posture.

“You almost gave me a heart attack. What in God’s name are you doing, just wandering around out here in the dark?”

Jane moved out from behind Francis and grinned. When she caught Mr. Bondevik’s eye, she smiled and waved her fingers.

Mr. Bondevik’s lips twitched upwards and then he was looking at Francis again.

“I was out for a walk with my younger brother when our light burned out,” he reached up to clasp the other man heartily on the shoulder, and it was then that Jane realized she could see the nuances of Mr. Bondevik’s face mirrored in the other man’s; the same fine brow and clear eyes, the same straight nose and guarded set of his mouth. “And what of you and Miss Doe? Out for a stroll?”

“We are now,” Francis said, with a polite smile.

“Our coach broke down a little ways back,” Jane piped up and Francis elbowed a warning nudge at her ribs.

Heat itched at her cheeks; she hated being scolded in the company of others, but in her current state, her pride wasn’t of so much importance. 

The sensation of Francis’ touch grazing across her ribcage was ticklish and she couldn’t help but giggle stupidly.

Mr. Bondevik’s lips twitched again.

“Might we accompany you back then? It would do us no reassurance to know we’d passed our friends without doing a thing to help just after they’ve been struck by such misfortune.”

“That’s kind of you Monsieur, but we do not wish to put you out,” said Francis.

“Not at all – it’s getting late. We ought to head back after anyway.”

“Then, let us send you off with a working lantern once we arrive back at Yeatlor, as a token of our gratitude.”

“That sounds like a fine plan. You have our assistance and gratitude.”

“ _We_ have the light, you know” Jane pointed out, sidling up to Mr. Bondevik. “So technically, _we’ll_ be escorting _you_ back.”

Though drunk, she still thought herself quick as a whip. Francis had time to be mortified by her display, but not enough to stop her. This was unbeknownst to Jane, who felt rather sharp at that particular moment.

Mr. Bondevik nodded.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true, Miss Doe. We’re all the more obliged to you for it.” 

A smile spread at Mr. Bondevik’s face, and the corners of his eyes crinkled.

Francis ignored this little interaction, knowing well enough that it was not for him. Instead, he turned to the man at Mr. Bondevik’s side.

“Monsieur Bondevik’s brother? Then you must be…”

“Emil, sir.”

Francis smiled and the atmosphere seemed to loosen around them. 

They had come down from the light scare the Bondeviks’ sudden appearance had brought, and now Francis was settling into his normal, charming self.

He stepped forward to shake the young man’s hand.

“Good to finally meet you, Emil. I’ve known your brother a long time.”

“You have?” Emil’s expression turned to one of interest and Jane couldn’t help but be delighted; he was a younger, fresher Mr. Bondevik – much less certain in his reservedness than his brother.

Francis and Emil had set to a reasonable pace at the front, lighting the way and talking about Emil’s imminent potter’s apprenticeship.

Meanwhile, Jane and Mr. Bondevik had settled into their own meander a few paces behind. Mr. Bondevik’s hands were at his back, the way a gentleman held them when he strolled. 

Occasionally, his arm would brush against hers.

“Miss Doe, you’re looking much better than the last time I saw you.”

Jane looked at Mr. Bondevik, momentarily stricken by the plain _non_ compliment before Mr. Bondevik reached up to brush meaningfully at his nose and she understood.

“Oh, yes, certainly, Mr. Bondevik.”

A beat of silence fell between them; Jane caught Francis’ and Emil’s voices ahead of them, as well as their footsteps. 

“And you? Have you been well?”

“I have been,” Lukas looked at her, and there was a striking playfulness at his lips that Jane had scarcely seen on him before. “Though I’m considerably better now.”

Jane’s cheeks warmed.

Emil said something in the distance that made Francis laugh heartily. 

The jovial nature of their conversation made the quiet intimacy of hers and Mr. Bondevik’s stand out all the more. She silence seemed to shriek.

“I’m happy to hear that,” Jane said, watching their feet.

Despite this, she didn’t notice how the path in front of them veered down in a steep decline. Her foot slid down, and the rest of her dropped abruptly after. Her stomach felt like it was lodged in her throat as a strong grasp caught her by the arm just before the pale fabric of her gown planted into the dirt.

Mr. Bondevik’s hands had been out in a flash to catch her in what was an admirable act of gallantry for those who’d been around to witness it; in this case, Mr. Bondevik himself, who was in no position to admire anything other than the softness of the woman in his hands, and Jane, who certainly did admire the act, but didn’t feel like she was in a position to say so.

“Ah, I apologize,” she said instead. “I seem to be a little bit drunk.”

The words ‘little’ and ‘bit’ ran into each other, slipping on the ease the alcohol provided her. 

Mr. Bondevik laughed at this, at first hearty and loud before he seemed to remember himself and tried to stamp it down. Jane could still see a smile playing at his lips from behind his hand though, and couldn’t help but join in.

They continued on and the next time the path veered away from the natural placement of her foot, she noticed and stepped carefully. Mr. Bondevik’s hand found her arm again, all the same, a firm, guiding grasp.

“The last thing we need is for you to bump your nose again,” he said when he caught her eye.

Jane remembered vividly the taste of copper and embarrassing wet burst during her previous encounter with him.

The wine talked for her.

“Do you not like me in red?”

“I’m sure I’d like you in most anything,” Mr. Bondevik answered. “Though, preferably, you wouldn’t be in a state of distress.”

Jane laughed at this, more so to show him that she was enjoying herself, rather than because she thought what he said was funny.

Up ahead, Francis had stopped, leaving Emil to continue a few paces ahead before turning back to see what was lagging the group behind.

“Monsieur Bondevik, you must forgive Jane. We were at Crystal Lake just before, where Jane… _helped herself_ , to the Arlovsky’s supply of wine.” Francis gave a terse smile. “She made herself at home scarcely after the Arlovsky’s themselves had settled in.”

The insult slid right through Jane’s head though she thought she felt Mr. Bondevik’s grasp on her tighten.

“It’s quite alright, sir. On the contrary, I always look forward to circumstances under which our paths cross.”

-

The next day, Jane woke up with the stagnation of the last night’s drink pounding at the inside of her skull. This was only exacerbated with Charlotte’s sharp knock at her bedroom door at the ninth hour – still much too early. Contrary to what she thought, she did not go promptly to bed upon their return to Yeatlor. Instead, Mr. Bondevik and Emil had stayed for a while – and more drinking had ensued.

Jane was cursing herself for this as Charlotte came in, either ignorant to or unfeeling to the other woman’s ‘ailing’ state. 

“Miss Doe, you’ve received an invitation.”

Jane pushed herself up against her pillows, one hand at her temples pressing tersely as if she were trying to choke the pain out of her blood vessels.

“An invitation? Take it away, I’m almost certain I won’t be going anywhere today – no balls or dinners or any sort of that nonsense.” Jane winced. 

“And for heaven’s sake – no _drinking_.”

Charlotte did not take the invitation away.

“And what of a private art viewing, miss?”

Jane’s eyes opened fully to stare groggily at the maid.

“An art viewing?”

“Indeed. Mr. Honda invited you to Hyacinth Chateau to tour the art on the estate. His letter seemed to imply that this came up in a prior conversation.”

Her skin was feverish as the remnants of the alcohol burned off in her bloodstream. This basking heat made it easier to place herself back at the chateau, where drink, dancing, and the warm lights seemed to cast a similar spell on all the attendants. 

The pain in Jane’s head flared again and her stomach churned. She felt like she was sweating wine, the traces hiding in the back of her throat almost making her sick. Through it though, she found the man with hair like ink and eyes like shiny obsidian.

Right! Mr. Honda – the artist! Jane did so love art; she vaguely remembered telling him this.

“Shall I still take it away still, Miss Doe?”

Jane’s fingers pinched into the duvet as if she were getting ready to throw it off of her, in case she needed to make a hasty trip to avoid getting sick on her bed.

“Charlotte,” Jane paused, her lips pinching tight. “Wait.”


	11. Chapter 11

Hyacinth looked different in the day than it did at night, though it lost none of its splendor. In the afternoon sunlight, it retained its warmth from the candles and twinkling lights the night of the ball, though it was more tempered now, faded, like it had shed some of its seduction, packed it away, and settled down.

As it turned out, passing time with Mr. Honda proved as good of a hangover cure as any; the man was quiet, temperate, and thoughtful. His words didn’t grate at her skull; every word was a gift, and she delighted in each one so much, that she was able to melt her headaches.

Though the Beilschmidts must’ve had a robust staff at the estate given its size and their wealth, Jane saw no one but the figures splashed across canvases as Mr. Honda led her through the labyrinthian halls. 

She had expected a nice viewing room, similar to what Francis had for his most expensive pieces, but all of Hyacinth appeared to be this. Names she didn’t need her memories to recognize were attributed to almost every piece in an ornate gold frame. In one room, the wall itself proved the canvas. Jane spent about ten minutes staring at a life-sized cherub, studying the life-like flush to its skin, and the way light gleamed off its sightless eyes.

“Incredible, isn’t it?”

Jane startled; she hadn’t even heard Mr. Honda come to her side. In her surprise, she had to take a moment or two to find the words to respond.

“It is. I can hardly believe it’s possible to live around all this beauty every day. You and the Beilschmidts are lucky.”

Mr. Honda chuckled.

“I’m the lucky one. If Ludwig and Mr. Beilschmidt hadn’t taken me in, I wouldn’t have such a luxury.”

She watched him as he said this. It wasn’t uncommon for apprentices to practice such graciousness with respect to their mentors and hosts, but this seemed different. Jane could see no lie in his eyes, just the calm resignation to the truth. 

He was stating a fact – truly, if they hadn’t put him up, he wouldn’t be here. Simple as that.

“Where are they anyway?” Jane asked, looking around them. The room was massive, especially with just the two of them to fill it.

“The Beilschmidts are out hunting.” 

“They didn’t ask you to come along?”

As she asked this, Jane was painfully aware of how strange the image was in her head; Mr. Honda riding around in the woods with hounds at his horse’s heels, gun aimed to fire. Nothing about the man had ever struck Jane as the sort to hunt – perhaps the patience and skill could be there, but certainly, no such desire to take.

Mr. Honda confirmed this.

“They did, but I had to admit; I’m not much for hunting – at least not the way the Beilschmidts do it.”

That was more than understandable. Hyacinth seldom could attract hunters from out of the valley to pay a sum and use the land – the Beilschmidts themselves left very little for others and the nature of their strained relationship with Mr. Braginsky certainly was no mystery to the world.

“I agree. I’m quite contented with Francis’ lack of interest in it, myself.”

They crossed into the other room, a grand, central meeting of the large house’s main staircases. A grand chandelier hung from the ceiling, glancing diamond fractals around the large, sun-swelled space. A place of light and beauty; the Beilschmidts had created their own paradise on earth.

This area was nearly void of paintings until one ventured up one of the curling stairways, so Jane and Mr. Honda stopped only briefly to take in the lone piece on the main, back wall upon entering the room.

It was an oil painting with a man, a lyre resting at his knee, with several other figures huddled around him. Cherubs held ivy out of his way for his convenience, and he looked to be dictating something to someone. It was a mix of stateliness and fantasy; exactly what life in the valley was like for those who could afford it. Luxuries from the furthest stretch of man’s imagination lay abundant, but only atop the solid foundation of the labor he'd done (gilded with a generous inheritance, of course.)

“It’s a fitting piece, is it not?”

“Most certainly.”

They took one of the stairwells, Jane guessed, to tour the art on the second floor of the house. At the first landing was another painting; one in greys and browns, depicting titan structures and looming, stone buildings that were depressing and unlike anything Jane had seen in person. To reprieve the eye of the heaviness of the structures, was a rippling gray-blue sea, with anchored ships bobbing in the harbor. The sky alluded that the viewer could leave the confines of the frame if they looked far enough to the horizon.

This one made Jane a little sad, though she liked it better than the last.

Mr. Honda’s eyes seemed to rest at the ships. Jane studied him as he watched them until he noticed because of course, the ever-observant Mr. Honda _would_ notice.

“This piece always humbles me,” he said. “It reminds me of my journey here.”

“Was it a long trip?”

“Yes, very.” He smiled and looked at Jane then. “But worth it.”

Both of them were quiet for a moment.

“Perhaps one day, you might paint a piece that shows what comes next.”

Mr. Honda smiled.

“Perhaps.”

They continued to climb the stairs, and as Jane anticipated, the next landing had another work to admire. All of these things – beautiful and plentiful here – and yet, Jane wasn’t quite so satisfied. 

Something had happened when they’d stopped last. The paintings, while nice to look at, sparked nothing inside of her like watching Mr. Honda as he gleaned some secret facet of his life to her, more brilliant than the crystal of the light fixture looming over them.

“Mr. Honda,” said Jane, and they paused.

The man looked up, questioningly. In this place of plenty, there was little that was his to offer her, though what she asked of him, she knew he could.

“These works are all lovely,” she started. “But I can’t help it, my curiosity simply won’t let it go, that is, that matter of _your_ work.”

Mr. Honda’s brow lifted. Charlotte had been right – they had spoken about viewing art together at the ball, specifically, Jane had mentioned viewing Mr. Honda’s work, however, the man seemed to have been counting on the prestige and grandeur of the Beilschmidt’s collection to draw her attention away from that.

“My work? Perhaps if we have time at the end, though the house is big and we have much ground to cover in the collection still.”

“Your work is _why_ I came today,” Jane reminded him, with a small smile.

Mr. Honda, caught between what accommodations he could afford his guest, and his pride, saw only one way forward. He paused for a few moments, his face looking like he was swallowing something that caught in his throat.

“Very well,” he finally said. “My work, it is.”

They continued to climb the stairs, past the second floor – their original destination – and to Jane’s surprise, past the third, as well. Her curiosity only ascended with them as her skin started to itch and the décor in the house grew sparse. On the fourth floor, she followed Mr. Honda down a short hall where a smaller, top-rounded door waited at the end. Through it was another set of stairs – narrow and more discrete looking. Jane saw no art here.

When she and Mr. Honda pushed themselves through this tight entrance, the space around them opened up once more into a room, not decorated at all, and rather dusty. The wood beams homed cobwebs that must’ve been cathedrals to the creatures that spun them. There was a single window that peeked out, near an easel with the utensils still resting on it, and some sort of metamorphosis splashed across the canvas.

The room was littered with paper, stacked on chests, tables, chairs, and curling near the top to roll off and fall to the floor like dried leaves. 

The walls were papered as well, with various sketches pinned up, the heavy lines and shadows in shadows identifying the medium to Jane as charcoal sketches. Mr. Honda mentioned these at the ball.

A few paintings that looked finished but unframed, were leaned up against the wall. These looked different than the natural, candid figures plastered around the sides of the room; these, while saturated in color and ground in geometric principles, looked like Mr. Honda had been deigned to paint wherever some visionless prat had pointed while throwing a handful of money his way.

The air smelled heavy with clay and paint. Jane was astounded. Mr. Honda looked sheepish.

“Ah, I apologize for the mess, I don’t entertain much in here as it’s primarily a workspace, but-“

Jane stepped further into the room, her eyes wide as she tried to see all the sketches Mr. Honda had up on the walls at once.

“What mess?” she breathed. “They’re incredible.”

Most of them were portraits, though a few landscape sketches and still lives were thrown in. Every single sketch seemed like phantoms windows to different people, places, and things. Jane was falling in love with them while knowing whatever more she craved of them; color, dimension, texture – anything that couldn’t be committed to paper, would leave her grieving for things she’d never had. A single study of an apple was more evocative here than anything Jane had seen in the rest of the house.

She worked her way around the circumference of the room, pausing only when she saw a familiar face.

Mr. Honda watched curiously as Jane reached as if to touch the figure in the picture, before stopping herself, the pads of her fingers only an inch away from smudging the bold dark lines that made out the easy slant of the man’s shoulders. Even without color, she could catch the striking nature of the subject’s eyes – his nose was without the bandage she’d seen him with, that day in town.

“I sketched Mr. Kirkland when I accompanied the Beilschmidts to a church outing,” Mr. Honda’s hand came up to rub at the back of his neck. “I’m not so well-versed with Anglican practices,” he admitted. “So I ended up doing something else.”

Jane fingered at the edges, tracing the pads of her fingers along the curled ends of the page, and smiled. Mr. Honda had only gotten the opportunity to draw Jett Kirkland’s face because the man hadn’t been sitting at a pew as an attendee like the rest of them, rather, he’d been at the front behind the podium, reading verses and delivering a sermon as clergymen might do.

Mr. Honda watched her with the drawing.

“We spoke to Mr. Kirkland after the service. He’s a very kind man. Do you know him, Miss Doe?”

The way Mr. Honda caught Mr. Kirkland, he looked to be talking about something hopeful – probably in the context of sin and humankind’s tendency to condemn itself, as the religious often talk about. The hard contours of his face let in only a sliver of softness, and it was all in his eyes.

Jane looked up at Mr. Honda, having realized she still hadn’t answered his question.

“Yes, I do,” she said, unable to keep her own smile at bay. “And yes, he is.” 

Mr. Honda’s lips curved upwards into a smile of his own and for a moment, they looked at each other.

When the moment passed, Jane left Mr. Kirkland’s likeness to circle the room some more. She’d seen the charcoal sketches up on the wall, she’d seen the oil paintings leaned up against the side of the room, and now, something else had caught her eye.

Pushed against the opposite wall was a chest and while normally Jane wouldn’t be so bold as to rummage through someone else’s closed trunk, she could see a wavering stack of sketches at the top, a puddle of them at the floor in front of it, and a few slips of paper poking out. 

Jane took this as to mean she could go forth to find more of Mr. Honda’s art.

She was there before Mr. Honda could realize exactly what she was doing. 

Jane lifted the heavy top up before he could tell her not to. 

As predicted, so many drawings filled the chest that it was any wonder the thing hadn’t burst yet. However, these drawings were different from the other ones Jane had seen.

Mr. Honda watched, horrified, and powerless to stop or reverse it as Jane uncovered hundreds of drawings, all of nude women – cattish eyes winking alluring promises, buxom bosoms, and plush thighs spread to reveal the dripping treasure in between.

Jane studied these drawings too. Mr. Honda wanted to melt into the floor.

When he’d recovered use of his body, he was at her side, snatching the drawings from her, shoving them back into the trunk, and slamming the top shut, regardless of the parchment he crumpled in the first place.

“Miss Doe-“

His eyes were bright on her, wild with fear. More refined and nestled amid all Mr. Honda’s panic was a seed of scrutiny, trained on her, as he waited for her reaction. 

He was watching her face in particular.

Jane was startled more so by Mr. Honda’s actions than by the naked women in the drawings. Mr. Honda swallowed, his throat twitching as if he were struggling to swallow something much too big before he continued.

“Miss Doe, I-…I know this must look…improper, but I swear to you, I can explain the… _nature_ of such drawings.”

Truthfully, Jane had liked these even better than the picture of Mr. Kirkland. They were honest, interesting, and though they lacked the ornate frames and reputation of the paintings in the rest of Hyacinth, they were strikingly beautiful. 

Still, though, Jane was interested in hearing about how there came to be so many of them.

“Please then, sir, I’ll listen to your explanations.”

Mr. Honda swallowed again, his brow pulled into a deep furrow.

“Before I came to live with the Beilschmidts in the valley, I lived in town, where I tried to eke out a small fortune from my craft. For a while, of course, this proved rather difficult – I’m only an artist, as you know, and not one with an inheritance or good name to fall back upon. Work was scarce and I snatched anything at all that I could if only to amass a sum sizeable enough that I might live off it.”

Jane looked back to the trunk of drawings, catching the dainty arch of a woman’s foot as it poked out of the chest. How provocative it would’ve been if the rest of her had been in there, she thought.

“Until?”

“Until…a man approached me one day.”

“Who?”

Mr. Honda just shook his head.

“I was never given a name, and anyway, the contact who’d reached out to me wasn’t the man who wanted to commission me – _that_ man kept his identity a secret. It wasn’t necessary for me to know him to do my job well, and he paid a rather large sum – one far greater than what an unknown artist such as myself might at first hope to be compensated with.” Mr. Honda sighed. “And he commissioned me many times over! Though I still find reasons to be ashamed,” he glanced at the trunk as well, “I must admit that even today, I’d find it exceptionally difficult to turn down such payment.”

So it was a money thing, as it often was for people.

Jane ventured forth to open the chest again, and this time, Mr. Honda let her. She paged through the various drawings, straightening those that were distressed by Mr. Honda’s hasty handling of them just minutes before.

“Were they all women?” she mused as she looked over a particularly interesting drawing with two women – one with her thighs spread and her hands cupping her breasts, the other behind her, reaching around to stroke her fingers along the seam of the first woman’s cunt.

Mr. Honda hesitated.

“In the house, no, in the drawings, yes.”

Jane ran her finger the lines in the drawing, tracing the swell of the first woman’s left breast.

“All…naked?”

Mr. Honda’s eyes dropped to her finger as it broke free of the charcoal trail and encroached on the woman’s nipple, smudging gray into a newfound shadow.

“Miss Doe, I must assure you I’m not _that_ sort of man.”

Jane looked at him from out of the corner of her eye.

“And what sort of man is that, Mr. Honda?”

Mr. Honda’s face was red, almost feverishly so.

“The sort that-“ his voice broke off and his face seemed to despair further. “The man who hired me would host these…big parties. Soirees, really, and the women-“ Mr. Honda flushed at the mention of them “-would arrive in these masks, their hair and faces all done up underneath. They’d wear these cloaks-”

Jane’s nose twitched; it was nearly impossible for her to hide her amusement.

“And I suppose there was very little underneath these cloaks?”

Mr. Honda didn’t answer. Jane was delighted to find that she was right. Something else itched inside of her, warm and insistent – she almost envied the women in these pictures.

“It was supposed to be a place of…pleasure.” Mr. Honda said. “I was left in the main room, where they left me to sketch what I saw. On occasion, I’d be given directions to draw someone specifically – those the master of the house had taken a particular liking to, I’d guess. Such a man kept to his private room, where girls would go to… _attend_ to him; one, two, three at a time. Those of us left in the main room, that is, the women and even I, were privy to some of the most decadent foods I’ve been able to sample in my life.”

Mr. Honda’s face was serious; he looked like he was giving a confession. Jane knew it was mean, but she couldn’t help but tease him.

“Did you sample any other such decadent things, Mr. Honda? You certainly seem to have a _detailed_ knowledge of their physiology, after all.”


	12. Chapter 12

Mr. Honda’s cheeks burned indignantly.

“I did _not_. I was commissioned to draw a great many of portraits of the women once they’d disrobed, however.”

“You must have been paid handsomely.”

Mr. Honda nodded.

“He paid for all of the pictures, even though he only kept a few.”

“And you took it upon yourself to keep the rest?”

“Only for my portfolio!" Mr. Honda said heatedly. "I did spend _hours_ on each portrait after all and…“

He trailed off; Jane was studying the drawings quietly, only vigilant for things she could use to tease him about later.

She held one up; her favorite, as far as she could tell. The woman in this drawing was exquisite. Her back was arched with pleasure that etched the expression at her face. Her breasts were thrust out, the movement in her body still fluid even if it was committed to the stillness of a drawing. Her lips, plump like flowers in full bloom, were parted as if she were waiting for someone to stick something between them.

The birthmark just below the sinewy ridge of her collarbone added a layer of authenticity to the picture the others lacked. It was as Mr. Honda had described; the other women had come in with masks and cloaks but it wasn’t until Jane saw _this_ woman, that Jane realized the others hadn’t taken them off. 

At the back of her mind, Jane noted that the woman in this drawing was blonde with fairness that coveted the rareness of gold, though it was too light to match it exactly.

“Mr. Honda.”

Mr. Honda looked up at the sound of his name and watched as Jane held up the drawing so that it was by her face.

“Maybe one day you could capture my likeness? Something like this?”

Mr. Honda’s face seared red and he pinched his eyes shut, his fingers coming up to pinch at the bridge of his nose, signifying a more dignified embarrassment.

Jane rolled the drawing up. When she held it at her side, the light folds of her skirts were enough to conceal it from sight, unless someone looked specifically to her in anticipation of her petty thievery.

-

The afternoon had long melted into evening, a half baked orange runny with blues and yellows when a carriage pulled up in Hyacinth’s drive. The Beilschmidt’s dinner guests, she ventured. 

She’d just been invited herself, as she and Mr. Honda descended to the main area once more. 

Jane didn’t see who emerged from the coach until everyone was seated in the dining room. The black and white of servants' uniforms flitted about the room with trays of food and pitchers of drink – polite phantoms. 

Ringing the circumference of the table were the Beilschmidts – Gilbert at the head, and Ludwig just to his right – Mr. Honda next, then Jane opposite Gilbert. 

Katyusha and Natalya Arlovskaya were present across from Ludwig and Mr. Honda, but putting a damper on that was a question Jane couldn’t help but ask.

“Mr. Vargas isn’t staying here anymore?”

Mr. Beilschmidt raised his brow and when he answered, it was almost a leer.

“Mr. Vargas has other business to attend to,” he winked. “That of the money-making variety, in town.”

Jane tried not to show her disappointment and Mr. Beilschmidt tried not to let that bother him. 

He addressed all his guests, except it seemed, Jane.

“Enjoy the food – Mr. Wang brought our order of spices expedited, good man that he is.”

At the sound of the vendor’s name, Jane perked up again.

“Oh? Is Mr. Wang attending this dinner as well?”

Mr. Beilschmidt shrugged, a little too sharply to embody its intended nonchalance.

“You’re curious tonight, Jane, but let me tell you as a man who must deal much in business himself, that it’s unrealistic to expect someone to know everyone he does business with so intimately.”

Jane felt her face burn indignantly. She hated being talked down to.

“I’m not asking after Mr. Wang’s mother’s maiden name, or the color of his drawers-“ Jane sniffed and somewhere at the table, someone – Ludwig, perhaps – coughed “-I simply asked if he was going to make an appearance tonight since you brought him up. You _are_ aware of who you let into your home, are you not? Besides, Francis _always_ makes a point to know the people he does business with, and exceptionally well at that.” 

A tendon leaped out at Mr. Beilschmidt’s jaw.

His eyes cut into Jane, red like they’d actually broken the skin. The entire table was silent; most everyone else was looking down at their laps.

Gilbert laughed then, shattering the tense mood in the dining room. The sound of silverware meeting plates started up as the guests started eating.

His eyes met Jane’s again, gleaming like stolen rubies.

“I wouldn't doubt it. Franny always did have a thing for people.”

From there on, things seemed to lighten up – at least that’s what Jane garnered as she looked over to the other half of the table. In her immediate vicinity, she was still weathering a brutal cold front - one that went by the name of Natalya. Jane had no idea chewing could seem so foul-tempered, and yet here she sat next to a woman who’s jaw movements could’ve easily been the sticking of pins into a raggedy Jane-doll in the other woman’s hands.

Mr. Honda received such a similar treatment; their half of the table seemed dark and sullen in comparison to Katyusha’s and Mr. Beilschmidt’s back and forth on the other side.

“So, Jane,” Katyusha raised her eyes above her younger sister’s head, which was bent close to her meal. “I was pleasantly surprised to see that you were joining us this evening. What did you come to Hyacinth for?”

Jane couldn’t help but grin. Katyusha was the warmest person in the entire room; even then, Jane could tell that this was the highlight of her day.

“The art. Mr. Honda gave me the full, _unabridged_ tour.”

At this, Mr. Honda flushed. Katyusha didn’t have to look over at him to catch Jane’s innuendo – her own playful nature recognized a kindred spirit.

“Oh? Where did he take you?” Ludwig asked with interest.

Jane took pause in the conversation to sip her drink. The waters in the fountains of Hyacinth must’ve run red with wine, she thought.

“And is it anywhere that would make us blush?” Mr. Beilschmidt added.

Mr. Honda, once again, seemed to be trying for a chance to disappear into thin air, but if there was a God out there, she had decidedly turned the other cheek, perhaps even with a sly grin.

“He showed me around the house – which is beautiful, I might add. I then was privileged enough to catch a glimpse of his studio, where he works.” Jane kept her face steady. “And to answer your question, Mr. Beilschmidt, it absolutely _would_ make you blush. It did me, anyway.”

Mr. Beilschmidt chewed his food thoughtfully, watching Jane, waiting for her to sip from her cup again, seemingly recognizing a sort of kindred spirit in her, himself.

“More wine, Jane? We have plenty here, and I recall vividly from your last visit at Hyacinth that you seem to enjoy it greatly.”

Jane caught onto this trick immediately. If she accepted, the others might very well whisper, as she had been the first to finish her cup, even among the men – including Mr. Beilschmidt. Jane gave a saccharine smile and lifted her glass appreciatively.

“Yes please – it’s quite good, and I’m so very thirsty.”

Mr. Beilschmidt’s returning smile never ceased – not in its existence nor its edge.

“Pace yourself, Janie, the night is still young.”

“To be sure. I’ll let you know when I feel I’ve overindulged so you can avoid a repeat of how you ended my last visit at Hyacinth.”

Mr. Beilschmidt’s cheeks tinged red, which admittedly, couldn’t have been that difficult to accomplish given his pallor, though all the same, she took his blanche as a white flag. She helped herself to the victory and celebrated with another healthy swig of her wine.

Mr. Beilschmidt looked like he wanted to say something else, but before he could, Ludwig spoke.

“You’re correct, Miss Doe,” he said with an uncharacteristic chuckle. The whole table looked up to witness it. “My brother struggles with moderation. His character is a composite of all the extremes of his nature, it seems.”

“I couldn’t agree more Ludwig, though it seems that the most extreme of all of these is his love of the wine,” Jane returned wryly.

Now both of the Beilschmidts' cheeks were thoroughly flushed. Katyusha laughed, a lovely, warm sound that rocked Jane in her seat, but she was the only one.

-

Dinner at Hyacinth hurried along; the conversation was maintained in such a way that the table never lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Everyone took a brief rest from eating at one point or another to offer a word or two up - _Did you hear of the investigation launched in town after the missing girls? Did you hear the Radcliffes postponed their daughter's debut because of it?_ \- and it was in this way that the hands on the clock seemed to move with the urgency of spokes on a wheel. 

Dinner ended within the hour and everyone declined dessert. 

Jane, though never first to leave the party, was relieved when everyone donned their coats and cloaks – she was excited to go home and recount the day. If art was the whetstone for perception then Mr. Honda’s work had left her gleaming, sharp, and lethal – all things that she needed to reconcile in the dark of her room beneath the canopy of her blankets.

The Beilschmidts accompanied their company no further than the door – it had been that sort of evening, Jane supposed. She bid a quick goodbye to Mr. Honda and a polite one to the Beilschmidts. Then she turned her eyes to the dark, wanting to catch Katyusha before the Arlovskaya coach left.

Only one of the sisters was to be found though, and it wasn’t the one Jane was hoping for. 

She went over anyway.

“Natalya,” Jane called.

The woman didn’t even look her way. She had one foot on the first step leading up to the coach door, and one hand resting on the handle that the footmen usually used.

“Natalya, have you seen Miss Arlovskaya?”

“If I had, I wouldn’t be standing around in the dark waiting for her, now would I?”

Her tone was as frosty as Jane would’ve expected; she repressed a shiver.

“No, I suppose not,” Jane gave a rueful little smile and both women watched as it came and went. 

There was a pause.

“Natalya,” Jane started then. “I want to apologize if I’ve done anything to…upset you. I assure you that any such transgressions were not intended, and you have my whole-hearted apologies at having done so.”

“What could you have done? We’ve spoken all of two times.”

Natalya’s chill, while not new or uncharacteristic as far as Jane could tell, caught her off guard this time. This was most likely due to the fact that she’d spent the past five or six months watching Francis trade good manners and quick wit for good sentiments from those of all walks of life. She had never seen such etiquette fail until she’d attempted to employ it herself.

“That’s what I’m getting at. You seem to…well, to be frank, you don’t seem to like me very much.”

Natalya’s eyes met Jane’s with a sterling intensity.

“Perhaps instead of worrying about whether or not I like you, you should be more concerned about your seemingly incessant need to be liked. With all due respect, Miss Doe, _your_ approval isn’t that of which I’m searching for.”

Jane looked like she had been slapped; she certainly wished she’d felt that way, for it would’ve stung less than Natalya’s remark. She swallowed the lump in her throat and soldiered on though.

Mr. Honda’s drawing, which had sat discreetly at her feet throughout dinner and was now tucked safely inside her cloak, felt white-hot, and lead-heavy. Jane could be scorned or guilty – but not both. Seeing as Natalya had fulfilled the former for her, she could not hold herself to the latter.

More silence passed and Jane used it to regain at least a shred of her dignity back.

“Have you seen the art at Hyacinth?” she finally asked.

“How could you not? There’s so much, you’d think it’s essential to the structural integrity.”

“Let me rephrase – have you seen Mr. Honda’s work?”

“The art of the wealthy is much the same – stilted, with a lot of everything to say nothing. I can’t imagine Hyacinth had much to offer Mr. Honda as far as vision is concerned.”

At this, Jane’s lips twitched, solidifying herself in her decision.

“Oh, I wouldn’t resign yourself to an opinion on his work so quickly.” 

Natalya watched as Jane stole a quick look from Mr. Honda, still at the front steps of Hyacinth behind her. Then, she reached into her cloak to procure the rolled-up drawing.

“Here,” she held it out to Natalya, who looked suspiciously from Jane’s hand to her face. 

“Let’s call it a peace offering, hm?”

Natalya didn’t confirm or deny this, instead, she picked up the drawing from Jane’s outstretched hand.

“Careful,” Jane lowered her voice as Natalya started to unroll it. “I borrowed it…with the intent of asking Mr. Honda’s forgiveness after the fact.”

She thought she noticed Natalya’s lips twitch as she held the drawing lower, where Jane’s body could conceal it from the artist’s view from the front door. Jane’s eyes were on Natalya’s face, studying her reaction like she had half a mind to commit it to paper herself.

Natalya’s face remained seemingly impassive to the unpracticed eye, though Jane could tell she was enthralled. Her eyes were searching the page, soaking up its every detail – each moment that passed marked a higher respect Natalya held for it. She was offering Mr. Honda’s work the greatest thing she had to offer; her time.

Jane had thought that maybe, this might thaw the ice queen, at least a little. The heat and passion in the drawing seemed just the thing to lure the woman from her dismal existence of passing each day in and day out, brandishing her prospects like a weapon to fight for a life of comfort she wished to maintain.

Natalya’s eyes flicked back up to Jane’s face, getting her attention before peering over to Mr. Honda, who was nodding along to something Mr. Beilschmidt was saying.

“ _He_ drew this?”

“He most certainly did.”

Jane could understand her surprise; the gaudiness of the subject matter and the frankness of her pose seemed much more Mr. Beilschmidt’s personality than Mr. Honda’s at first glance. Of course, if one looked closely enough, they could see the whole thing was full of Mr. Honda and his nuanced discipline. Mr. Honda was not just an artist – he was a witness to something as rare and lovely as a pearl, and he had captured it seamlessly.

Mr. Honda had lied – he was a hunter of sorts in his own right.

“Oh.”

Natalya was watching Jane, her expression disarmingly open.

“Then…”

“You can keep it,” Jane reassured her. “Maybe use it as a reminder to ask him to show you his studio sometime. He’s great company anyhow.”

Natalya’s eyes went back to where Mr. Honda was standing, the lone man at Hyacinth seeing everyone off now. Her cheeks were pink, nipped raw from the chill in the air perhaps. It was funny though – Jane had never thought the cold could affect someone who seemed to wear it like armor.

Jane saw her own coach come up the drive. 

“Thank you,” said Natalya. “Really. It’s-“

“I know. Be sure to tell Mr. Honda that though.”

Jane gave Natalya a light smile, finally feeling a break in the biting wind. Natalya was too late returning it. 

“Good night!” she called.

Jane gave a final wave as the women climbed into their respective coaches. From inside her carriage, she could see Katyusha running from Hyacinth to the Arlovskaya’s coach just ahead. Jane waved through the window but Katyusha didn’t see. Mr. Honda stood at the door until the last carriage was out of sight, before pulling his jacket tighter around himself and stepping back inside.

-

The ride back to Yeatlor was peaceful and serenely quiet as the trees cast spindly silhouettes against the blue-black of night. Jane leaned her head against the cold windowpane and watched through half-lidded eyes as the countryside sped past her. Her body was relaxed enough to have been asleep but her mind felt alert. It was like staring at sleep from the inside out – an out of body experience for someone who had forgotten their body entirely.

This made the scene playing out on the front steps of Yeatlor all the more dream-like, as the coach pulled into the drive. 

Jane roused herself from her lazing rest, somewhat groggy, and narrowed her eyes at the two figures before the house. 

If no one had answered the door yet, then it was because they hadn’t made their presence known yet. They hadn’t looked up at Jane’s coach yet either, instead, seeming too engrossed in each other. 

When Jane got closer, she could see that it was a man and a woman with bags that indicated they intended to stay the night. The man looked miserable, his blonde hair mussed and wild at his head like he’d searched it for something – anything – that might appease his companion, whose eyes were alight and aimed at him. She looked like she wanted to spit.

Cautious inquisition drew Jane out of the carriage. She kept her eyes sharp so the strangers knew that they weren’t to trifle with her.

Her shoes crunched at the gravel underfoot; Jane tried to keep her face blank as she got the strangers’ attention.

“Good evening – is there some way I can assist you?”

Both the man and the woman whirled around to look at Jane, their faces white as if they’d watched her rise from the grave. Jane kept her expression as pleasant as she could manage. A bright, albeit stiff, smile spread across the man’s face, the boyishness of which reminded her of Mr. Jones. Jane felt her cheeks heating. The lady companion kept her mouth pressed into a thin line, alternating between glaring at the man and glaring at Jane, her arms folded tightly across her chest.

“Oh! You need not worry about us Miss, we’re just here to see one Mr. Bonnefoy.”

“I’m not Mr. Bonnefoy, as you can tell, but I do reside here at Yeatlor. Is there any way I could perhaps be of some assistance?”

The man looked back at his companion, seeming to almost lose a few inches in height when she glowered at him, before returning to look at Jane, that smile replastered on his face.

“Ah! The madame of the house! That’s just as well, or even better since I have yet to have the honor of making your acquaintance, Madame Bonnefoy. I-“

“Doe.”

“I’m sorry?”

Jane’s face was tight as she tried to fight the blush rising in her.

“I live here, but I’m not the madame of the house. I’m a…companion of Mr. Bonnefoy's – Miss Doe.”

The man smiled sheepishly.

“Ah? Yes, then, Miss Doe, I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to imply that I had business with Mr. Bonnefoy. You see, we’re old friends - Mathias and his wife, Marie - returned to the valley and wanting to make our return known.” 

He bowed deeply then, reaching out to take Jane's hand to plant a kiss at it. “You have our most humble apologies for disturbing your residence at such an hour.”

Francis hadn’t mentioned friends. Jane smiled serenely, though the corners of her eyes were tight.


	13. Chapter 13

“Think nothing of it. Any friends of Mr. Bonnefoy’s are friends of mine; let’s go inside and we’ll see to it that you all get the reunion you desire.”

At this signal, the footman got the door and Jane led the troupe inside. Yeatlor was alight and Jane felt a bit better even in these strangers’ presence once she’d properly shed the dark off her back. She couldn’t place it but there was something about them that had tension winding inside of her; it was the same feeling she got whenever Francis pressed her for signs of her memories. There was some mental block concealing the Kohlers, and at the present, they seemed fine hiding behind it. 

In the foyer, the surprises continued; Jane could hear voices from the parlor. 

“…we’re trying for a child, of course, though Eliza seems reluctant to settle down completely. She’s restless, though certainly, I knew that when I married her.”

A round of light laughter sounded just as Jane pushed the doors opened and she immediately recognized Mr. Edelstein sitting by the fire with Francis, nursing a cup of tea. Her mood improved with leaps and bounds when she saw that Feliciano was there too; her smile softened in its growing authenticity. 

The young musician grinned back and gave an excited little wave.

“Jane, _ma chère_ , you’ve returned and brought guests.”

Francis rose to give her a kiss on each cheek. 

“I did,” Jane smiled. “ _Your_ guests _.”_

Francis turned towards the Kohlers, who stepped closer to the fire so he could get a better look at them. At once, Francis’s brow rose.

“Mathias? _Mon Dieu_ , I had no idea you were back!” 

Both men came to meet in a hearty handshake. Mr. Kohler laughed, a sound that denoted his relief at finally receiving the homecoming welcome he’d desired. 

Francis turned warmly to the woman beside Mr. Kohler, and Jane was surprised to see how quickly and effortlessly her face seemed to sweeten, like a patch of cloud blowing past to let the sun through. 

“Madame Kohler, you get lovelier every time I see you.”

He took her hand and kissed the back of it. 

The woman gave a coy giggle, turning her face away as if she knew Francis would make great strides just to look upon her again. She swatted playfully at him.

“Oh, Francis, you’re making me blush.”

Her saccharine voice made Jane’s stomach turn. She would’ve happily gotten sick in a nearby plant if it meant driving Mrs. Kohler off. Goodness, even the girls who were out without prospects weren’t so transparent – this was a _married_ woman.

Mr. Edelstein and Feliciano rose to greet the couple too. 

As they did so, Francis turned back to Jane.

“Mr. Edelstein and Mr. Vargas had a gig nearby, so they dropped by for a cup of tea.”

“I hadn’t thought you were a big fan of tea.”

Francis grimaced. 

“I’m not, but Mr. Edelstein doesn’t trust his apprentice with wine.”

Jane recalled with fondness what happened to Mr. Beilschmidt and the other Mr. Vargas when under the spell of wine; she couldn’t begrudge Mr. Edelstein his decision.

A dry reunion would be a painful one, Jane thought, gauging Mr. Kohler’s restlessness and his companion’s selective warmth, which was almost more aggravating than Natalya’s persistent chill. 

Jane felt bed for Feliciano, Francis, and maybe even a little for Mr. Kohler, who looked like he could use a drink more than anyone. She was still happy enough to draw out the warm glow from what she’d had at Hyacinth, and so long as she was resigned to sitting in this parlor, she’d hold onto that for all she was worth.

When everyone had settled into their seats, Jane once again found herself as she did at Hyacinth; a circle of not-strangers struggling to keep the heart of the conversation beating. If friendship was the lifeblood for good company and amusement, she wasn’t so certain this meeting could be salvaged.

Mr. Edelstein, while polite enough, was too taciturn to soften the shock of the Kohler’s abrupt presence. Francis, while charming, was just one man and couldn’t brute force his way through awkwardness the way Mr. Beilschmidt could. Mr. Vargas was tethered to the whims of his mentor, Mr. Edelstein, and didn’t dare speak out of turn. Jane was a little drunk, and as such, contented to stay quiet, though after a few agonizing minutes of silence and sipping from cups, an elbow at her ribs encouraged her otherwise.

If she had just one more drink at Hyacinth, she probably would’ve snapped at Francis for doing that. She was a person, for God’s sake, not a horse to be spurred into action.

She gave a tight smile anyway, the way ladies did when deigned to do something they didn’t want to.

“So, then, Mrs. Kohler, you and Mr. Kohler certainly do make a handsome couple. How did you two meet?”

Because Jane didn’t have a French accent and was not the master of Yeatlor, Mrs. Kohler didn’t seem to find it necessary to return her show at warmth. 

In fact, Mrs. Kohler ignored Jane entirely and looked over at Francis, who smiled back. Jane immediately felt bad for Mr. Kohler, who seemed uncomfortable, but not at all surprised.

“Francis introduced us.”

A beat of silence fell. Neither Francis nor Mrs. Kohler broke their stare. Feliciano, for the first time in his life, looked like he was uncomfortable among people. Mr. Edelstein sipped his tea.

“That’s right,” Mr. Kohler broke in, his smile a little frantic. “And I’m better off for it.”

The lack of response from Mrs. Kohler made everyone’s discomfort almost palpable. 

Mr. Kohler raised his cup of tea.

“To good friends, yeah?”

The circle raised their teacups. Jane felt foolish; no one toasted with tea. She tried to catch Francis’ eye, but he was entertaining Mrs. Kohler, as she leaned in to whisper something in his ear. Her hand was cupped around her mouth scandalously. Jane thought it would’ve been more modest if she’d just kissed him on the lips and was done with it.

She sipped her tea; it had already gone cold.

“How lovely. Have you been married long? Mr. Edelstein just got married somewhat recently himself.”

Mr. Edelstein shot Jane a pointed look at her mere mention of his personal business.

“We’re not newlyweds. It’ll be five years this June.”

“I see, I see. So, then, do you have any children?”

A hush had fallen on the already quiet room. The crackle of the fire sounded like someone was snapping a handful of sturdy boughs and sticks nearby. Mr. Kohler’s eyes fell to his lap.

“No,” Mrs. Kohler said icily. “No children.”

Jane was struck by this response, which seemed to go further than Mrs. Kohler’s initial issue with Jane – that she wasn’t Francis.

Mrs. Kohler’s tone was unmistakable here and so the room had a choice to make; to acknowledge it or pretend they hadn’t noticed. It had to be a unanimous decision though, lest someone make a point to bring it up further along in the night. _That_ would almost certainly kill the evening.

Mr. Kohler seemed to brute force the second option by attempting to compensate where his wife’s manners had failed.

“Not yet, but someday.”

“Not any day soon,” Mrs. Kohler reasserted.

Somehow, her tone felt more biting for everyone when it was directed at her husband. Jane thought the room stifled a collective wince. 

“You know who I saw the other day, Mr. Kohler?”

Mr. Kohler, his face having yet to recover from his wife’s remark, turned his sad eyes over to Francis’ face.

“Who?”

“Mr. Bondevik.”

Mr. Kohler’s face lit up at the name and Jane felt a warm feeling settle in the pit of her stomach at the small smile that turned at Francis’ lips. The crinkle at the corner of his eyes made his happiness an authentic one, though this was no news for Jane; though she sometimes teased him for being as fussy as an old maid, at his most basic, he enjoyed making others feel welcome, and she was immensely proud to know him because of that.

Jane also noticed that Mrs. Kohler’s face soured more. It was as if the real struggle were not actually she and Mr. Kohler, but their respective levels of contentment, which pulled back and forth as if the universe had found them fundamentally at odds with one another and were constantly debating over which one to keep bountiful.

“Lukas? Is that so?” 

Francis answered with a nod and one of Mr. Kohler’s hands came up, first over his mouth in apparent disbelief, and then to rub pensively at his jaw, as if it might will himself to reconcile the news faster.

“My God, how is he? I haven’t seen him in…since-“ his eyes flicked to his wife, who was studying her fingers with their talon-like hold on the arm of the sofa. Mr. Kohler looked back at Francis and swallowed. “In a very long time.”

Jane couldn’t help at the vicious swell of happiness in her chest, that Mr. Kohler had someone to care about other than – and perhaps, more than – his wife. 

“Mr. Bondevik is quite well!” Jane piped up, unable to resist with a pointed glare towards Mrs. Kohler, which was decidedly ignored.

“Really? Is he healthy? Is he happy? Did he-“ Mr. Kohler’s voice broke as he swallowed. “Did he marry?”

“Mr. Bondevik is as healthy as a horse! He seems content enough. In fact, we saw him the other night and he seemed like he was in very high spirits. He-“

“Mathias, can we go? I’m rather tired.”

Jane turned towards Mrs. Kohler, bewildered. She felt Francis’ warning gaze at her back, but the alcohol burned it off, wicking its cautionary measures off to disappear before the circle of eyes that seemed to look anywhere but at the Kohlers.

Mathias blanched, his mouth left in the shape of whatever word he'd been planning on making next. Without sound it was decimated; ravaged beyond recognition. Mr. Kohler swallowed his thoughts instead. 

Finally, he seemed to remember himself, and the glow he’d taken on at the first mention of Mr. Bondevik’s name, faded.

“Ah, yes, of course, my dear. It’s getting late.”

Jane looked at him, her eyes wide, her brow pulled into a furrow. 

She knew if she said anything though, Francis would be there to chastise her. She kept silent and felt even more foolish than she otherwise would’ve.

While Mr. Kohler had started to grow on her, Jane couldn’t help but feel a little relieved at the mention of the couple leaving. 

Usually, the words came easily at Yeatlor, but with them here, it seemed like everyone's tongues were in knots.

There was that end of the evening migration from the parlor to the foyer; _The tea was wonderful. We must do this again soon. What a splendid evening!_

The usual lines were recited like they were the world’s worst touring performers. This didn’t bother her so much so long as everyone was out the door. She gave an especially warm goodbye to Feliciano, who got away with mimicking Francis’ double kiss at her cheeks from earlier. 

Jane’s optimism calcified in her gut and pitted in her stomach when only Feliciano and Mr. Edelstein seemed to be donning their hats and heading out the door. That was when she remembered - the bags.

When she turned back inside of Yeatlor, she could already see Mrs. Kohler running her fingers along the walls, tracing the ornate trim, eyeing the paintings on the walls. Francis was following a few paces behind – between her and Mr. Kohler.

“You really do keep a lovely home, Francis. It’s a pity we must leave before I’ve had the opportunity to properly tour it.”

Francis chuckled and Jane felt her stomach turn. Could he really not see through such transparency?

“ _Ma chère,_ you’re always welcome here. You know that.”

Jane wasn’t so sure that was true; at least so long as she was at Yeatlor, anyhow. 

Mrs. Kohler turned to Francis and they paused. Jane felt strangely invisible, but perhaps not as much as Mr. Kohler did.

“Francis…”

She was peering up at him with a look that was most unlike how she’d looked that night so far. Her lips were curved into a small smile, his height gave her the advantage of peeking up at him through her eyelashes. Janes knew this strategy well enough, as she’d employed it enough times herself. 

“Yes? What is it?”

Mrs. Kohler paused and a strange look crossed her. In the next moment, she was leaning heavily against the wall, her hand up at her forehead as if she were feeling for fever.

“ _Ah_!-“

Francis caught her in his arms before the floor could. Shame, Jane thought.

“Oh, Francis, I’m so sorry – I just felt so _faint_ all of a sudden and _overwhelmed_ by the journey. I just-”

Francis was studying the woman, his brow pulled into a deep furrow. Jane thought for certain she might be sick, that last drink be damned.

He reached up to brush a loose lock of hair from her face.

“Say nothing more, ma chère, and rest.” Francis turned to look at Mr. Kohler. “Mr. Kohler – Mathias – my friend, you should stay here tonight. You and your wife must be tired. I shouldn’t be able to sleep at all tonight knowing I sent you away after such a long trip.”

Mr. Kohler seemed to like the idea as much as Jane did. Mrs. Kohler looked happier than Jane had seen her all evening. She lounged in Francis’ arms and it was then that Jane recalled all the baggage she’d brought in before they’d even discussed staying the evening. 

“Jane, could you please see to it that our finest guest room is prepared for the Kohlers?” Francis didn’t even bother to look up, he was too busy, fanning Mrs. Kohler with his handkerchief.

When Mrs. Kohler caught Jane’s eye, she gave a smile that stirred up a restlessness in Jane’s hand – the sort that made her want to tunnel her fingers into the other woman's hair and yank.

“Of course,” she swallowed the bile rising in her. “I’ll do that at once.”

-

Jane seldom wandered the house in her nightgown. 

For one thing, the house was large and somewhat drafty. 

Sometimes, even in her chemise, gown, and pelisse, she still found herself loitering near the fire in the drawing room in search of warmth. 

For another thing, despite being a resident at Yeatlor for the foreseeable future, she still hadn’t felt it proper to be in just her nightgown with Francis. She hadn’t very well seen _him_ in such a state of undress before.

Yet, her rule was to be broken on this night, and on account of the Kohlers, no less. 

She stood, holding onto a candle for light, her free arm wrapped tightly around her as the Kohlers stood outside the room she’d set up for them; a perfectly fine room. As Jane might’ve guessed, Mrs. Kohler didn’t want it, or at least not when Mr. Kohler had it as well.

She was only a few paces away from them but it was clear that the discussion they were having was a private one, given how uncomfortable it was for Jane to be hearing it, like the words chafed at her skin. Jane stared hard at the wall – of course, one of the few places at Yeatlor without art – and pretended not to eavesdrop.

“Darling, please, we’re guests here. Can’t you just-“

“I said ‘no’ and if you ever really loved me at all, you’d respect that and demand separate rooms,” Mrs. Kohler hissed, words punched between teeth.

Mr. Kohler sighed heavily, the weight of his wife’s vitriol finally taking its toll on him. He ran a hand through his hair and Jane could understand why it was as disheveled as it was now. The poor man must’ve done that at least ten times in an hour if he spent said hour with her.

There was a note of quiet.

Jane turned when she heard the sad, sheepish sounds of Mr. Kohler’s footsteps. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to find an elegant way to present Mrs. Kohler’s request, though it was so painful to watch, Jane beat him to it.

“I assure you, Mr. Kohler, Yeatlor is happy to make any accommodations, you or your wife might require.” She gave him a meaningful smile, which he returned gratefully.

Jane turned to Mihail and Charlotte, who’d come to assist Jane in handling the guest rooms.

“Could you please see to it that another room is promptly prepared?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Yes, Miss Doe.”

Jane went over to Mrs. Kohler, keeping her voice cool.

“Mrs. Kohler, does this room suit you alright?”

“It does.”

“Then, I’ll leave you here and say good night. Please don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

Jane hoped with every fiber in her being that Mrs. Kohler would just go off to bed and shut up for the rest of the night.

In any case, she at least did her reluctant hostess the pleasure of disappearing into her room at the present, leaving Jane and Mr. Kohler to make their way to his room for the evening, which was just down the hall.

“Mr. Kohler, if you’ll follow me please.”

For a few moments, neither said anything. The only sounds in Yeatlor that late were that of their quiet, tempered footsteps. Then, Mr. Kohler surprised Jane by breaking the silence.

“Miss Doe, I apologize.”

This surprised Jane. She looked at him and found that he’d stopped following her.

“Mr. Kohler? What is it?”

He leaned heavily against the wall and sighed. For a moment, Jane felt bad for thinking all she had about him.

“It’s…” 

It wasn’t her place. She ought not stick her nose where it didn’t belong. Then again, that’s what Mrs. Kohler had done all evening, so perhaps, Jane could get away with stealing some liberties of her own.

“Mr. Kohler,” she hesitated. “Forgive me – but is it by any chance…Mrs. Kohler?”

He gave a hollow little laugh.

“So you noticed then. Well, I imagine we weren’t terribly skilled at hiding it. Our marriage has been…strained lately. Exhausting, really. I can-“ 

His voice broke. 

Jane stalled for a moment and then ventured forward to place a tentative hand at the crook of his elbow; an attempted gesture of comfort.

“I can hardly believe how we’ve come to this,” he said in a ragged voice. “I just want to be _happy_. I want to have a family that _loves_ me because God knows I love them, but I- I’m just…”


	14. Chapter 14

Jane gave Mr. Kohler’s arm a light squeeze.

“It’s getting late,” she said gently. “Come with me.”

Mr. Kohler didn’t say anything more, just let Jane lead him to his room. Mihail had already started a fire in the fireplace, and Charlotte was laying down fresh linens by a basin filled with water, steam curling up from the glassy surface. A few of the bags Jane had spotted by the Kohlers earlier were by the door.

“Thank you, Mihail, Charlotte.”

The door opened and shut again as both took their cue to leave. Jane brought Mr. Kohler by the bed, setting the candle she’d brought with on the vanity as she passed, and tentatively let her hands brush downwards from his elbow to his hands.

“I think you’ll find this room quite comfortable. Charlotte brought in clean linens and will be back at nine to wake you for breakfast. If you need anything else, you can ring the bell. Consider it our pleasure.”

Mr. Kohler tried to smile but it fell into a grimace.

“Yes, thank you, Miss Doe.”

Jane gave his hands a little squeeze and tried to smile reassuringly though she knew it was more just for the sake of doing it than anything else.

Still, as Jane left, candle in hand once more, she paused at the door and looked back at him. He was still standing by the bed, looking a little uncertain of what to do with himself.

“Chin up, Mr. Kohler. Things might seem better in the morning; they often do for me.”

She made sure to catch his eye before leaving and he sent her a little nod of confirmation, but she believed it about as much as she'd believed her little, rousing comment. 

The potential that things might get better seemed too tenuous a thing to confirm, and yet, she hadn’t handed him a guarantee. 

Jane stepped out of the room, her chest no less heavy than when she entered it and shut the door softly behind her. 

The house seemed darker than she was used to as she padded down the hall to the stairway. Maybe it was because she seldom found herself on the third floor, and even more seldom was it that she found herself wandering the house at this hour. 

Mrs. Kohler’s room was dark and silent when Jane passed. 

Perhaps being a pain was more exhausting than the woman let on, she mused.

She took the stairs down one floor to where her and Francis’ rooms were. 

He had disappeared shortly after Mrs. Kohler’s “spell” to send for a doctor in case something actually was wrong with her. This was a little funny because Jane could think of several things wrong with the woman off the top of her head, though a doctor wasn't qualified to find any of them.

In any case, she had half a mind to poke her head into his room to see what he’d gotten off to since, and why he’d decided to entrust her to the Kohlers' comfort when he seemed much more invested in it himself.

Her room, like Mr. Kohler’s was from Mrs. Kohler’s, was just down the hall from Francis’, and as she wondered at dropping by to at least apprise him of the Kohler’s state, she found most curiously that his bedroom door was open, spilling a slat of yellow light out into the middle of the dark hallway.

Jane slowed in her sock feet, immediately feeling like she was intruding, though she was still out in the hallway. During the day, his bedroom door was shut tight, during the night? 

Jane wasn’t certain. She was usually the first of them to go to bed. 

It felt odd that he might leave the door open when he was inside though. Jane was careful to erase both her steps and breath as she passed by the open gap at the door, where she might peer in, and whoever was in, might peer out. 

She heard a dull thud against the wall and her curiosity peaked.

As it turned out, those inside the room had no interest in what was going on outside of it. Jane felt her face open in shock; her brow lifting, her eyes widening, her lips parting. 

She clamped a hand tightly over her mouth to avoid making a sound. Her heart was pounding.

She shrank further into the dark, out of reach from the light of Francis’ room, and watched Mrs. Kohler’s hands tunnel into a head of familiar blonde hair.

Again, it was like Francis could bring out facets of Mrs. Kohler that even she could not summon within herself. Her breathing was rough, and the sound tormented Jane. She thought for sure, nothing could be worse, nothing could shock her more, and then Mrs. Kohler let out this wanton moan. The sound dropped straight through Jane’s stomach like a stone and settled between her legs. 

She could hear how Francis’ and Mrs. Kohler’s lips met, the soft rub of them followed by the frantic slip of his hands along her body. 

Jane watched as Francis angled his head, bringing his lips and dragging his kiss to her neck. Mrs. Kohler’s glassy eyes were half-lidded. Her head dropped back against the wall as she arched towards him, wanting to give Francis access to everything she possibly could.

It was then that Jane noticed Mrs. Kohler was only wearing her chemise.

Jane turned, every part of her on fire. Her stomach flipped and her heart felt like it was beating so hard, it might break a rib or two. She turned and stole away into the dark hallway, no longer stepping carefully. 

She didn’t care any longer if Francis caught her now, she would already be out of his reach by the time he managed to untangle himself from Mrs. Kohler.

Her eyes stung but she wasn’t sad. Her mind lagged, limping behind her racing thoughts, trying in vain to catch one and make sense of it.

She took the stairs so quickly, she almost skipped a step and tumbled down the rest.

Mrs. Kohler was _married_ , for God’s sake, and even if she didn’t seem to respect that, Jane had thought Francis the type of man to. 

He’d _introduced_ them!

At the reminder of this fact, Jane felt her guilt chewing a hole in her stomach. Maybe that’s why she hadn’t been sick yet, everything she had to throw back up had drained out into her body, just another casualty in Mrs. Kohler’s and Francis’ amorous affair.

The way his fingers had moved over her body was burned into the backs of her eyelids; Jane had never seen anything like it. This brought about another vicious welling of venom towards Mrs. Kohler. Francis had touched her reverently like she was as coveted as gold and fragile as crystal. 

In Jane’s eyes, Mrs. Kohler was worthy of neither, and yet to Francis, this certainly seemed not to be the case.

Jane couldn’t help but wonder how Francis saw her then? Would anyone touch her like that? She recalled the way Mrs. Kohler had toyed with Francis throughout the evening, speaking in veiled propositions, dangling her own dissatisfaction with her husband like it was a challenge to be won.

She thought herself quite smart when she wanted to be and yet she’d never considered herself alluring. She had never tried her hand at tempting before, not like _that_ , with any intent to follow through.

She reached the central area of Yeatlor’s bottom floor. Even through her thick, wool socks, the floor was like ice underfoot. All the fires were out for the night on this level.

What had Jane hoped to accomplish here anyhow? She had no bed, no private room on this floor. For those things, she’d have to return to the floor above, and the thought of drawing closer to Francis and Mrs. Kohler at that moment, especially with whatever they might be doing, made her feel a little sick. 

She couldn’t just stand here in the dark like a gargoyle until the sun came up either though. Jane found her anger and sickness turn on herself – why hadn’t she just gone to her room to mind her own business? Why did she have to peek into Francis’ room to find _that_? She had never spied on him in her life, had never tried to see past the polished, charming front she lived with every day. It was an unspoken agreement between the two of them – they were strangers at night.

Her eyes fell on the front door.

She couldn’t. While surely a nighttime stroll (or run?) would provide her the freedom and space to breathe that she wanted, she had no shoes or cloak with her; those were all up in her room, which for all intents and purposes, did not exist at that moment.

In her mind, the scene upstairs played in her head. Jane brought her hands up to her temples and pressed like she was trying to squeeze it out of her. She could not stop it.

The way Francis grabbed her, equal parts wanting of her and for her. 

The way his hand smoothed up, reconciling the billowing fabric of her chemise against the curves of her body. 

His palm had enveloped her breast with ease like he’d done this sort of thing often, and Mrs. Kohler had moaned like hardly anyone else had made her feel quite that way. 

Her gown was thin enough that when Francis’ touches drew the fabric close to her, Jane could make out the flush of Mrs. Kohler’s skin beneath along with the dark buds of her nipples. 

The look on her face had been eerily familiar. Jane thought of Mr. Honda’s drawings from earlier that day. 

It was _really_ cold down here. Jane found herself aching for a warmth fire couldn’t provide and for just a moment, her imagination took over potently enough that Jane found the faces in the memory changing; sometimes it was she and Francis. The heat between her legs throbbed. 

Other times, it was she and Mrs. Kohler, and the same heat responded in like.

Jane thought maybe she had, in fact, had too much to drink that night. 

She certainly didn’t feel drunk at that moment, but she also, on a very reasonable and conscious level, held nothing but contempt for Mrs. Kohler. 

Still, that image flickered in her head, her hand feeling the weighty plushness of the other woman’s breast. There was perhaps another part of Jane, a less reasonable, not-totally conscious part of her, that ached for Mrs. Kohler at its most primitive, her dark hair falling loosely over her shoulders, her soft scent wafting around like an amorous perfume.

Jane’s throat itched like the scent was more real than what her mind made it; she suddenly felt like she was choking. 

She set the candle down on the bottom step and fled into the chilly night.

-

Jane knew more or less where she was. She hadn’t strayed off the path and even with the ground stamped down from where carriages most regularly passed, it proved formidable and frigid in her sock feet – she was in no mood to go pushing through the brush and trees. 

It was pitch black around her until her eyes adjusted and then it was just black. She regretted not bringing the candle pretty soon after leaving as it would’ve been more doable than she initially thought. She had stopped running as soon as Yeatlor was out of sight, which had come quick considering the sloping terrain and abundance of trees around the estate. 

It was also frightfully cold, which she’d gathered before leaving though the experience was certainly more grueling than the rational concept. 

Her arms were tight around her, clutching the thin fabric of her chemise around her frame. Her socks were soaked through and she could feel the formerly wet, now crusted spatter of mud caked onto her legs, which were numb from the ankles down. She was shivering. Her skin barely registered her own touch; her nipples pebbled and ached.

She must’ve looked like something that had crawled out of the river nearby as she stumbled through the dark, but she didn’t worry about this. 

She was too uncomfortable, and besides, who on earth would she encounter at this hour?

The answer to her question came after an immeasurable span of time (as almost all of it was out here.) If it were daylight, she would’ve recognized the broken, wooden fence by the road, rotted posts leaned up against each other like brothers in arms – where she, Francis, Mr. Bondevik, and Emil had made the trek back to Yeatlor the night before. That felt like years ago in the wake of the night's revelations.

It was somewhere around here a white face loomed in the dark and scared her. She froze, the inside of her matching the outside now. Her lips parted in shock; she wanted to scream, but her voice was hoarse and throat, chapped.

After the initial glimpse of the phantom, a suspiciously material rustling was heard with the specter’s frantic movements. Jane thought she saw light float and bob about the fence. She was rather frantic herself now as a firm, viselike grip closed over her arms.

She struggled, trying to tear herself from her pursuers hold, but was too fatigued to muster up the appropriate strength to wrench herself free. 

She let out a scream and the ghost surprised her by giving her a firm shake.

“Jane!” It insisted in a familiar voice. “Jane, _stop_. It’s me, Feliciano.”

The light steadied and Jane was struck by the realization that it was a lantern. When she dared to look upon the face of that who caught her, she saw that it _was_ Feliciano, his eyes wide and brow furrowed. The combination added a gravity to his face that she wanted to wipe away.

“F- _feh_ - _feh_ -Feli, it’s you.” 

Jane hadn’t realized how cold she was until her words had gotten all stuck, chunking off like ice.

“What are you doing here out this late?”

“I-I-“ 

She was shaking, the chill somewhat worse now that she had forfeited whatever meager warmth walking had afforded her.

“Jane,” he seemed to take on the full magnitude of her appearance then; her thin chemise and socks soaked clean through to the bone. “What’s wrong?”

She tried to tell him but the words wouldn’t form – she was trembling too hard and she didn’t know how to tell him about what she’d seen.

Feliciano pulled her closer to him so that her cold face was buried in the front of his shirt. His hands worked quickly over her arms, trying to warm her by friction, but when that seemed useless, he shrugged off his own coat and pulled it tight around her.

“N- _nuh_ -no, wait,” she mumbled, using her hands to bat him away, but Feliciano, much to her surprise, was not to be dissuaded.

“You’ll catch your death out here dressed like that.”

It wasn’t until the heaviness of his coat fell at her arms that she realized truly how thin her chemise was. If she weren’t so damned cold, she’d probably have had the decency to be embarrassed. The hot, throbbing wetness between her thighs had rapidly gone cold but she didn’t dare ask Feliciano to warm this part of her, no matter how pleasing the new images that played in her head were. 

Perhaps she’d been looking at her memory loss wrong – the way tonight had played out, if she’d been emptied of memories and filled instead with fantasies, her life would be all the happier for it.

She tugged Feliciano’s coat tighter around herself.

He was watching her intently, studying her face; the blotchiness at her cheeks and the disarray of her hair.

“Janie, _tenerezza_ , are you alright? You look waxen.”

Jane’s eyes focused on his face; she seemed not to have heard him. 

Feliciano looked good – quite good. 

He at least wore this unseasonal chill better than she did. His full lips were always slightly quirked into a little smile, giving him a boyishly mischievous look. She could certainly imagine them at someone’s neck.

Her memory, feeling particularly vindictive, splashed this image in her head; Francis’ room, but instead of he and Mrs. Kohler, it was she and Feliciano, her form splayed between him and the wall like she was drowning on dry land.

He had the fingers of a musician; long and dexterous with callouses stamped into the pads of his fingers by the strings. She could imagine how easily they could play her too, tucking against her body with an expertise she couldn’t seem to master with herself.

Her cheeks singed despite the nip in the air.

“I-“ she swallowed. “Yes, I’m alright. I wasn’t feeling well back at home and wanted a bit of fresh air.” 

Feliciano’s hands were still at her arms, squeezing into her chill-numbed flesh.

“Do you need a doctor? Come back with me to the Edelstein's, I’ll see to it myself that you’re taken care of.”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly-“

“You could,” Feliciano interrupted her. “I hope you will.” 

Feliciano glimpsed the uncertainty still etched on her face.

“If it’s Mr. Edelstein you’re worried about, you shouldn’t – he’s not as cold as he looks. The Edelstein's have a whole host of guest rooms and staff to take care of those who fill them so you wouldn’t be putting anyone out.”

Jane found herself fixating on his lips as he spoke, imagining how they’d feel imprinting heat on hers.

“No, I have to go back.”

Her answer seemed to surprise her as much as it did him. 

Feliciano looked at her, eyebrows raised. 

“But Jane, it’s freezing and-“

The chill, that’s right – his coat. She shrugged out of it, the stiffness in her limbs making her clumsy. 

She folded it into his hands which were still shaped as if holding onto her.

“I have to go but thank you, Feli. Good night.”

Despite the bite in the air, it was like she couldn’t get away fast enough. Her stomach flipped and she found herself tentatively excited at returning to Yeatlor to the private familiarity of her bed. Once she thawed out, she was certain her thoughts would be racing. Maybe then, she could invite Feliciano in her dreams, where there didn’t exist a situation in which he’d say ‘no’ and where she could try all the things that she suddenly couldn’t get out of her head.

This is what propelled her back through the cold and dark to Yeatlor, leaving Feliciano baffled and a little hurt, his jacket still clutched in between his numb fingers.


	15. Chapter 15

The next morning, Jane came down from her room, sulking like a cat. She had been dreading what she expected to be an agonizing breakfast with just the Kohlers and Francis but was surprised to see that upon entering the drawing room, this was not the case.

“Good morning, _ma chère._ Mr. Edelstein and Feliciano have returned to us, as you can see.”

Jane, groggy, dazed, and carrying what felt like a nest of angry bees in her chest, let her gaze flick unceremoniously stunned to Yeatlor’s returned guests before she ventured further into the room.

“Honestly, Jane, are you still half asleep? Say hello.”

It took her a moment to notice Francis’ warning; she refused to look at him and instead took to watching Mrs. Kohler, who was buttering her toast in-between shooting Francis salacious looks.

Jane, who was on her way to the hearth to pour herself some coffee, bobbed into a slight, clumsy double-curtsy.

“Mr. Edelstein, Feliciano, good morning.”

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, Jane.”

Coffee and toast secured, Jane returned to her spot at the table. She busied her eyes and hands with the heat of the beverage through the delicate porcelain of the cup and the crumbs her fingers were shedding from her small breakfast. She could feel Feliciano’s eyes on her, and Mrs. Kohler’s and Francis’ eyes on each other.

Strangely enough, it seemed that Mr. Edelstein was her favorite person in the room then and there, as he kept his eyes resolutely on the newspaper he’d commandeered and folded in his hands.

It was between him and Mihail anyway, who dropped in to punctuate the terse breakfast with an announcement.

“Mr. Bonnefoy, Mr. Braginsky’s shipment just arrived.”

“Excellent, thank you, Mihail.”

When he left, everyone could hear the door shut. Nobody spoke. 

The crackle of the fire and the cluttered sound of cutlery and tableware would’ve been a pleasant backdrop if Jane hadn’t preferred to dine alone that morning. Such a thing wasn’t a possibility on such a big estate though, especially with guests.

She kept uncharacteristically quiet and her eyes low, hoping to extinguish any conversational opportunities that the others may have found.

Feliciano’s eyes darted around the table, searching for signs of the storm - insidious cloud formations and wind that could snatch leaves off trees. Mr. Kohler was sipping his coffee, looking no less tired than Jane had last seen him. Francis and Mr. Edelstein were the only ones who looked normal.

Jane wondered if maybe the former just excelled at hiding his guilt.

Mr. Edelstein cleared his throat and turned the page of his paper. It shattered the quiet established on the scene so poignantly, that Jane broke her rule about not looking up just in time to catch Mr. Kohler hazard a glance towards his wife – as she fixed Francis with a smitten look. 

Jane fidgeted in her seat, uncomfortable by the display, her elbow bumping her napkin off the edge of the table.

There was an odd gratefulness to this accident – Jane could seek the refuge below the table for at least a moment or two, to fetch the fallen linen, after all. This feeling was short-lived; Jane ducked beneath the table to pick her napkin up and was unfortunate enough to catch sight of Mrs. Kohler’s slippered foot rubbing teasingly along the length of Francis’s calf.

Her stomach churned, insides twisting into sailing knots. Jane wanted to be sick all over again.

She must’ve spent longer than she thought under the table because then she heard Feliciano’s voice:

“Jane, are you alright?”

She started, half at the surprise of his voice and half at the knowledge that when she emerged, most everyone’s eyes would be on her, which is exactly what she’d been set on avoiding this morning.

She shifted and the crown of her head bumped against the underside of the table, which trembled with the aftershocks of her impact. Jane let out a little yelp of pain and emerged, hand rubbing at the tender spot where she bumped it, her face red, both from embarrassment and annoyance at her own clumsiness.

_For Heaven’s sake, Jane._

Now, even Mr. Edelstein was peering at her from over the top of his paper. She felt Francis’ eyes on her too as she quietly folded herself back into her chair and tried to be as small as possible.

“Are you alright?” Feliciano asked again.

She skirted the gazes of everyone at the table.

“Yes, I’m fine, it was just a little bump.”

Feliciano’s lips quirked upwards.

“I meant after last night,” he said gently.

She could feel Francis’ eyes burn more persistently into her. 

_Damn it all, don’t you have a married woman to pine for?_ She thought, venomously. 

Jane kept her eyes down and stared hard at the bread in her hand, her thumbnail flaking off bits of crust to fall to her plate like dead leaves.

“What does he mean by that? You seemed fine at tea last night.”

Her skin itched more intensely – that’s when she knew everyone at the table was looking at her now. Jane shifted in her seat. 

Everyone seemed to be waiting for her response. She said nothing.

“I saw her after tea,” Feliciano answered. Mr. Edelstein returned to his paper.

Jane inwardly groaned and prepared for the fresh discomforts the near future would bring; it hadn’t occurred to her to swear Feli to secrecy, mostly because it hadn’t occurred to her that he and Mr. Edelstein would return for breakfast.

“When?”

“After Mr. Edelstein and I returned home last night, I went for a little walk and so it seems, did Jane.”

Francis looked between Feliciano and Jane, suspicious. This made Jane’s blood heat indignantly; if anything, _he_ was the one with some things to answer for.

Roderich looked up from his paper just then.

“Jane’s ill? How unfortunate.”

“I just couldn’t sleep, is all,” Jane interjected hastily. “I’m fine now.”

Feliciano had taken to looking at her strangely too now, and Jane had begun to wonder if perhaps she had started to sprout a second head. She felt herself bristle.

“Ah, then, that’s good to hear,” said Feliciano, his face vacant of its usual smile.

Jane hated seeing Feliciano without it. It seemed like the universe was teasing her – it would’ve been so easy to confide in him, to tell him what had sent her out into the dark last night and put him at ease but Francis was right there, studying her like she was pressed under a microscope.

-

The rest of breakfast went by more tersely than the first half and by the end of it, Jane had little crescent moons bitten into the palm of her hand. She felt as if she’d just held her breath for a million years. 

Like the evening prior, everyone had migrated towards the entryway, only this time, Jane had no interest in sticking around to see what sort of tricks Mrs. Kohler had up her sleeve to try and extend her stay.

She hung around at the fringe of the group and after finally returning Feliciano’s cheek kiss from the night before, she turned to slip quietly to her room, trusting Francis’ etiquette to keep him at the door until the last guest had left. 

She should be so lucky. 

Jane was met with the revelation that Francis’ manners might not have been as pristine as she initially thought for the second time in the span of twenty and four hours.

“Jane.”

Her name followed the sound of the door.

Her shoulders jumped and her grip on the banister tensed as if she might snap it in half.

“Jane,” he said again. When she still didn’t answer, he started up the stairs after her, pausing to try again more insistently. “ _Jane_.”

One of her feet found the next step experimentally and seemingly of its own accord. 

For a moment, Jane thought she’d succeeded in furthering her attempt at a getaway, and then there was a tug at the crease of her elbow. It took her a moment to register that it was Francis’ hand on her.

She looked at him, breaking her silent vow of ‘see-no-adulterer’ only for the pure shock his touch provided her.

“Jane, _mon Dieu_ , I know you heard me.”

She yanked her arm away, the blow of Francis’ shocked and hurt expression only softened by the traces of Mrs. Kohler left at his fingertips and in Jane’s mind.

“ _Ma chère_ , what’s wrong? Have I done something to upset you?”

This was her chance; she could spill it all right now – Mr. Kohler’s unhappiness, what she’d seen the night before, and how it made her feel.

She could, technically, only she couldn’t; her stomach was in knots that held her tongue hostage. Her brain was simmering like broth in a bowl of bone.

“It’s…”

Francis’ brow raised again. He thought something was to come of this little confrontation.

“It’s nothing, I’m just a bit tired still.”

Francis studied her for a moment, looking like he wanted to call her bluff. Clear blue gleamed like unfeeling, all-knowing crystal and for a moment, Jane was worried he’d ask again.

Thankfully, he didn’t.

“Ah, I see. Then –“ he swallowed, his eyes still uncertain. “Did you need anything? Perhaps you should lay down.”

“Yes, yes, I think you’re probably right. I’ll go do that.”

Francis’ face grew more suspicious. Compliance – another reason to worry with Jane. Her response barely sated his curiosity and so she only was allowed to continue up the stairs a few more steps before he stopped her again.

“Look at me, Jane,” he said softly. “Is there something else, _ma chère?_ ” 

“No,” she lied.

Francis finally let her go, though as Jane climbed the stairs, she didn’t feel the glow of her triumph. She felt like a dog slinking away with its tails tucked feebly between its quivering legs. 

She scarcely noticed the familiarity of Yeatlor pass her as her mind drifted again to the night before and how Francis held onto Mrs. Kohler. Her stomach flipped, though she didn’t feel sick anymore.

Warmth seemed to pound inside of her, desperate for escape, but Jane knew not where it might go.

As her fingers brushed the knob of her bedroom door, her mind leaped from the night prior, to the past few moments and the weight of Francis’ hand on her. The heat beneath her skin seemed to pound harder.

She could no more easily ignore someone beating their fist against the door as violently as if they’d intended to break it down.

Jane went straight to bed and tried. She laid there as the minutes passed like kidney stones. She wasn’t tired – quite the opposite. Her body felt like it was threaded with hot wires that cooked her. She was buzzing in response. When she wrapped her arms around herself, she was surprised to find that her skin was still smooth and not broken out into boils that matched the fever in her head. 

She felt like a pot about to overflow, or like the dancing flames of the fire.

When she heard the door of her room, she pinched her eyes shut and pretended to sleep, willing her breath to be steady. She could hear footsteps in her room, even and firm. She went from pretending to sleep to playing dead, hoping her benefactor would show her the indifference of a bear with a corpse.

A beat of silence fell.

Then, there was the tap of something being set down at her bedside table – clear and with a slight ring to the blunt sound, silver on wood, perhaps? Jane held perfectly still.

She felt something stroke softly against her cheek, then the ticklish touch of her hair skimming her temple before being pushed back to loop behind her ear.

The suspended quiet that followed filled the room, but not quite as fully as it could’ve if Jane had been alone. She waited until the quiet deepened, which was prefaced by the helpful sound of her bedroom door opening and shutting again.

Even then, Jane waited a few more minutes, almost convincing herself to sleep before she sat up, blinking as groggily as if she _had_ slept, her skin feeling hot, her bones achy, and her head throbbing.

Her room had the same dozing warmth it usually did this time of day, and as usual, it was empty. 

On her bedside table was a small tray with tea and a small, neatly folded slip of parchment. 

Francis’ handwriting was unmistakable; _fais de beaux rêves._

-

In the next days that passed, Francis and Jane had lapsed into quiet cordiality, which was an improvement on their relationship in the breakfast that followed the Kohler’s visit but a regression from their routine before the Kohlers had come. 

It was on a morning in this state, just a few days after said visit, that Jane and Francis sat having a quiet breakfast when Mihail burst into the drawing room with his hair disheveled and face distressed. 

Francis and Jane rose to their feet at the sound of the door at once, unused to him in the appearance of such disarray. Their gut seemed to detect the appropriate amount of unease before they themselves consciously realized it.

“Mihail, what is it?”

Francis’ voice was sharp. Panic spiked in Jane, churning in her stomach like stormy waters.

He took a moment, his brow furrowed and his breath coming like he'd been running. Jane's pulse started racing to catch up. 

“There's been word from the Edelstein's,” he finally said. “It’s Mr. Vargas.”

Both Francis’ and Jane’s minds were blank. There was hardly any sort of unsavory news they’d think to associate with Mr. Vargas – that is until it left Mihail’s lips.

“He’s been attacked.”

There was a moment – just a moment, in between the words Mihail said and Jane understanding them. In that moment, nothing was bad or wrong yet. The fear hadn’t registered and dread hadn’t struck her so. Francis’ moment, as it turned out, had been a lot shorter than her own.

“When? Last night?” Francis’ voice was sharp.

“That’s what the letter alluded to, though it didn’t specify outwardly. Shall I ready a carriage?”

“At once,” Francis was on his feet right away, toast and coffee forgotten. “Jane,” he said, though he didn’t look to even be thinking about her. “If you need to get ready, do so at once. We ride for the Edelstein's by the end of the hour.”

Jane was already on her feet, following Francis out of the room, though she scarcely recalled this. She didn’t feel like she was in a position to be declaring any such thing, but the need to get to Feli, to be by his side, to see him awake as his own smiling self overrode any other need, so she supposed it was as true as anything might be when she confirmed it.

“I’m ready.”

The plan may have been to be on their way within the hour, but they were seated in the coach and bumping along the road within half that. Neither of them said anything on the short ride there, though as Jane set her head against the cold glass of the window and stared hard at the scenery that blurred past, she felt something warm settle at her side and then tentatively graze her fingers. She let her hand catch this like a hunting trap, devouring its warmth for all the comfort she could squeeze from it. 

Neither she nor Francis spoke a word of this when they pulled up the drive of the Edelstein's and disembarked.

The servants there were waiting for them when they arrived, so they were let in immediately. Without a thought, their coats were taken and they were ushered upstairs to where Feliciano’s sickbed must’ve been.

The entire way there, Jane’s heart thudded with a gravity she thought could’ve shattered her into a thousand pieces. Just as well too – she wasn’t sure how much longer she could bear the sickening swirl in her stomach. The uncertainty of Feliciano’s state mingled terribly with her good health. She thought maybe a part of her was laying with him.

This feeling intensified as they followed the maid down the hall to Feliciano’s room. 

Each step felt like another beat in a funeral dirge. She felt herself empty of any spirit.

Inside, Mr. and Mrs. Edelstein were at his bedside, huddled by his form, which seemed terribly still in the swaddle of thick, wool blankets.

A man Jane had not seen before was packing up a bag with instruments that must’ve been intended to make those who were ill feel better, but that looked sinister none the less.

Her eyes were stuck on the long, pronged, and sharp instruments the stranger was neatly packing up into his bag. Francis stepped in front of her with all the certainty of the master of the estate.

“You are the doctor?”

The man paused his packing and turned to face Francis. Jane saw then that he looked younger than Francis, his hair a fairer blonde, his face clean-shaven, and just the teeniest bit doe-eyed.

“I am. Doctor Väinämöinen, at your service.”

The two men met in the middle to shake hands. Jane was surprised by how well Dr. Väinämöinen seemed to receive it.

“How is he?”

Dr. Väinämöinen placed the last of his instruments in his bag and it snapped shut.

“Mr. Vargas has suffered trauma to the head and-

“From who? What happened?” Jane asked, peering over Francis’ shoulder.

Dr. Väinämöinen turned to Jane, ready to answer until Francis commandeered his attention once again.

“Is he okay?” he pressed.

Dr. Väinämöinen’s eyes flicked between the two before settling on Francis. He cleared his throat.

“He is – but he needs a lot of rest and he’s _exceptionally_ lucky.”

The good doctor said this last part extra sternly like he suspected Francis and Jane had shown up with the exact intent to reverse Feliciano’s astounding luck.

“What happened?” Jane asked again.

“As far as we know, he was attacked in town. Someone must’ve crept up behind him and knocked him over the head with something.”

“Good God, why would anyone _do_ such a thing?” 

“Roderich, did you see who it was?” Francis turned to his long time friend.

Mr. Edelstein rose from the stool at Feliciano’s bedside looking grimmer than Jane could ever recall seeing him before.

“I wasn’t there, he was off in the afternoon and evening. He went to town to visit someone.” Jane thought she saw a flicker of something at his face – hurt, regret, something that softened his eyes to sad, late-summer shadows. “He was alone.”


	16. Chapter 16

This remark fell between them and soured the mood further. Jane locked eyes with Francis and for the first time in days, she felt like things were as they had been before. She felt a swelling in her chest and with that, a release of something inside of her – a response to the safety Francis could be for her once more.

From Feliciano’s bedside, a choked sound came from Mrs. Edelstein, her shoulders hunched and fingers at her face. When she looked up, Jane saw that her cheeks were awash in tears.

“Who could do something like this to someone like _him_?”

Her voice grew to just short of a wail. Jane couldn’t blame her; she knew what she meant. Good, smiling Feliciano who gave out his trust like the servants tossed out feed for the chickens. 

Jane dared to draw closer and Mrs. Edelstein returned to the solace of her palms.

She went to Feliciano’s bedside and was immediately struck by how small he looked there, nestled amongst the blankets. Her eyes stung as she sank down to perch at the edge of the bed, careful not to divot the mattress too much and disturb Mrs. Edelstein.

Jane sat like this for a few moments, feeling incomplete. 

She moved, in a slight lurch at first, her hand weighed down by her hesitance before she committed fully to the act and grabbed his hand.

His fingers, dexterous and with callouses embedded at the pads of the tips felt heavy in a way that mirrored the feelings clotting in her heart.

Feliciano’s hand was still warm, and it made Jane even more anxious to see him awake again. She was staring hard at him with tear-glassy eyes, willing him to sit up so she could explain to him what had happened during the Kohler’s visit properly this time. She could bring him soup or tea or whatever it was he needed, keeping his mind busy with all the things she’d seen and had not yet shared with him – meeting the Arlovskayas, Mr. Honda’s drawings, Katyusha – everything.

Jane kept one of Feliciano’s hands sandwiched tenderly between hers, aching to be of the same constant comfort he was to her, even if he wasn’t awake to appreciate it.

Francis watched Jane, his attention first going to her face and the tender, half-lidded way she watched him. Then his gaze dropped to her hands, noticing how the one at the back of Feliciano’s traced lightly along the knuckles.

“Jane,” he said softly and his face twitched. He could tell that his voice was ruining the fragile silence, and with it, the safety instilled in it. “Didn’t you hear the doctor? He’ll be okay, _ma chère_. You mustn’t fret.”

“I know,” she said. Her voice sounded choked and when she blinked, she was surprised to feel wetness slip past her lashes.

She could feel Francis’ eyes on her and it made her skin itch. 

She focused on Feliciano and how his skin felt under her fingers. 

“It’s just, he’s so _sweet_. I don’t have to tell you that though – you know him far better than I. To think that someone could do something like this…to someone like him, it’s ju-“ Jane’s voice broke and she kicked herself for it. 

“It’s not right,” she said when she trusted herself again.

No one said anything. Mrs. Edelstein looked up from her hands, eyes shining, her red nose matching.

-

They stayed at Feliciano’s bedside for about an hour but he never woke up. At the end of it, Francis sent their coach ahead, so he and Jane could make the short trip back to Yeatlor on foot. He said the fresh air would do them good. Jane didn’t protest; the warmth of his arm linked through hers felt nice and he didn’t press her for conversation.

She couldn’t remember the last time they’d walked like this; he had shown her around the valley when she first showed up, like this – on foot and with their arms linked. The more she’d settled into this tentative life, the more it became hers, the less they walked like this. Francis could trust her to walk without him now without stumbling or tripping. She had friends completely separate from his; she liked the valley with her own earnest warmth, rather than having leeched off the convenience of Francis’ wealth.

It had only been about half a year and yet, this life _felt_ like hers – more so than any other she might remember, would have.

“Jane,” Francis finally said, startling her from her thoughts. 

“Yes?”

“I…don’t want you to worry.” He paused to look at her, gauging her expression. “Feliciano will be fine. Everyone will be; this was an isolated event done by one bad person. I shouldn’t expect things to get any worse.”

Jane’s brow pulled into a deep furrow.

“Whether or not things actually get worse isn’t really up to you though, is it? People are going missing, being attacked in the streets – do we even know what’s happening? And if we don’t know that, then how do we know if they'll get worse or not?”

“I’m at least certain it could never happen to you.”

“But why _not_?”

Jane turned and rounded on him and Francis, in his shock, paused, allowing her to break from her tightly knit stance at his arm.

“What if it has already? What if I just can’t remember, or if it’s _why_ I can’t remember anything?”

Her voice sounded frantic. She tried to add a force to it that made it accusatory, and not panicked. 

“You’re safe, Jane.” He closed the distance between them, his eyes burning like a driftwood fire. “You’re safe because you have me now. That is the difference between you now and you then. It’s also the difference between you and Feliciano. No harm will come to you – I swear.”

His hands had found her arms again, pinching into her even through her thick, woolen cloak.

“Not while my heart’s still beating.”

Jane didn’t protest any further, but as they lapsed back into silence and continued on their way to Yeatlor, Francis still felt as if he’d lost.

When they arrived back, her grip slipped from him like water. 

He waited by the door, watching as she went up the stairs to her room before he turned to head to his study. He had a correspondence to write.

-

Jane passed most of the day in her room, doing nothing in particular; napping fitfully, drafting defiant, half-baked letters that were supposed to take some derivative inspiration from Katyusha’s, but without much of her conviction and practice. All of these ended up crumpled and in her previously unused wastebin.

She paced the same route before her bed so thoroughly, that she was surprised the wood wasn’t worn straight down to the last precarious fibers. 

When she finally heard a knock at the door, she figured it was Francis, aggravated by the sound of her footsteps above his office, but instead, it was Charlotte, and behind her, a face that was almost so coincidental, it made Jane forget the terrible news of the morning.

“Katyusha!”

The other woman stepped in, meeting Jane in the middle as she all but leaped into Katyusha’s arms.

“Why have you come? Did you hear about Mr. Vargas? He-“

“Yes, I heard.”

Katyusha’s smile faded slightly, her eyes glimmering with a sympathy that renewed the ache in Jane’s chest. Sensing Jane’s wilting mood, Katyusha reached up to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear.

“I came because Mr. Bonnefoy said you could use some company and I could think of nothing I’d like to do more than be with you if you'll have me.”

Jane’s lips turned upwards into a little smile. She supposed this was a part of Francis’ vow to care for her; if he couldn’t, he'd find someone who could.

“Truly? It’s no trouble?”

“Perish the thought. Besides, if Mr. Bonnefoy is busy with company of his own, we have a better chance of stealing away for some time to ourselves, just us ladies.”

Katyusha winked playfully, looking just as she did when Jane first met her. Something had struck Jane then though, that put the pleasantness of her guest’s arrival on hold for a moment.

“Company? What company?”

Surely Mrs. Kohler couldn’t have found a reason to come back so quickly, although Jane wouldn’t have put it past her either.

-

Katyusha and Jane went downstairs just in time to watch Mihail step backward through the front doors – both of which were wide open. This was enough to stop Jane and let her wonder why for just a moment, before a dark stripe of wood, longer than it was wide, slipped by, guided in by Mihail’s careful, gloved fingertips. At the other end was Mr. Oxenstierna. 

At the familiar face, Jane felt her ease grow. She smiled, feeling a little more like herself.

“Good evening, Mr. Oxenstierna. It’s good to see you again. You look well.”

The other man gave no more than a grunt in return, which again, was so familiar that the smile at Jane’s lips widened. His parting words from their last encounter never even came to mind.

Francis was, of course, around to direct Mihail and Mr. Oxenstierna on where to place his new cabinet, so Jane didn’t speak as freely as she would’ve liked to. Instead, she kept a few feet behind him and stayed quiet, Katyusha’s presence being comfort enough for the time being.

Francis took longer than what Jane would’ve considered normal to place the cabinet, taking Mihail and Mr. Oxenstierna from room to room, studying them with the piece for a few moments before shaking his head, and leading them to the next. 

Finally, they ended up circling back to the original room, where Mihail and Mr. Oxenstierna settled the cabinet into its new home (the first place Francis had tried it) with a tight grunt from each man.

With that done, Francis was predictably the first to break the silence.

“Excellent – it looks splendid, Mr. Oxenstierna, you’ve really outdone yourself.”

The face of Mr. Oxenstierna outdone was unchanged from that of Mr. Oxenstierna sufficiently done.

“Shall we have a drink to celebrate?”

Mihail was still a little red in the face, and Jane noticed how he flexed his hands as if trying to dispel a tremor or tickle from them.

“Oh, yes, I think that’s a marvelous idea,” said Katyusha sweetly. “Please, if you’d allow me to make a selection?”

Jane didn’t miss the way Katyusha glimpsed at Mihail. When Francis protested, she didn’t miss a beat.

“Oh, but Mihail can easily-“

“I have such a fondness for kitchens and domestic tasks, you see. 

My mother, of course, won’t have me meddling with servant’s duties at home, but I would so like to see to it myself, that is if you’ll allow, of course.”

Francis was never one to deny a woman anything.

“Yes, yes, sure, if it so pleases the lady, then it shall be hers.” 

Though his words were laden with lace and silk, the wink he sent Katyusha’s way after transformed his stiff response into something shared between friends, perhaps even lovers.

Francis was gracious as he showed Katyusha to the kitchen, the accommodating sweep of his arms christening the halls of the large house for her feet. Mihail trailed behind, though he wasn’t required; perhaps out of habit, or else so that he would be able to attest for himself, the extent of his uselessness in this small domestic task.

It was just Jane and Mr. Oxenstierna now. 

Since setting the cabinet down, he was able to straighten up fully to his true height. Christ, Jane hadn’t remembered him being so tall.

She smiled at him.

“It looks lovely. You did a beautiful job.”

Mr. Oxenstierna dipped into a gallant bow; the sort gentlemen did when a lady paid them a compliment so that they might show their gratitude and respect in equal parts. One of his gloved hands was still resting on the corner of the cabinet.

“Thank you.”

He held her gaze. His fingers drummed against the surface of the wood in a way that made Jane think he was admiring his own handiwork. She couldn’t begrudge him that – it was incredibly fine work. It did confound her, however, as Mr. Oxenstierna did not strike her as the type to require praise or reward. He had known he’d done a good job long before Jane had been around to pay him compliments.

The drumming stopped after about a couple of moments – another peculiar fact that Jane couldn’t place.

Mr. Oxenstierna cleared his throat.

“Then, I’ll be off.”

As he said this, Francis, Katyusha, and Mihail had reappeared in the doorway at the cusp of the room, wine and glasses in hand.

“Oh, but Monsieur Oxenstierna, a celebration of your work is a celebration of you – you must stay.”

Mr. Oxenstierna bowed again.

“Thank you, but I really ought to be going. Work and all.”

For a man of so few words as he, his explanation was plenty. No one tried to keep him any longer.

“Ah, well, of course, my good man, I’d hate to put you out.”

Mr. Oxenstierna turned to leave, and the trio at the doorway parted to let him past before following him out towards the door.

“Next time then, Monsieur Oxenstierna, I insist.”

“Safe travels!”

Jane hung back, still thinking about Mr. Oxenstierna and the way he’d looked at her. The serious cut of his face seemed to make any time his eyes met another’s, a stare, and yet, there was something familiar and pressing about it to her, like something hiding in plain sight that she’d forgotten about.

He hadn’t said anything specific. There was nothing she could discern from a ‘thank you’ and he was too far gone to try asking after now.

His hands had been on the cabinet, had lingered there long after it had been set down. Francis, Katyusha, and Mihail had been gone for at least a few minutes. 

What had possessed Mr. Oxenstierna to touch the cabinet for so long? Did he always struggle to let pieces go like that? Was this the unknowable bond between an artist and his work?

Jane didn’t think so. She went to the cabinet and ran her fingers along the edge of the surface. The wood finish felt like silk under her skin. There were two drawers tucked neatly at the top before the out-swinging doors. 

Jane’s eyes flicked to the doorway, which was still empty, even though she heard no more voices. 

In the next moment, Jane was pulling each drawer open by the intricate metalware. The first drawer was disappointingly empty. The second was not.

Immediately intrigued, Jane picked up the roll of paper and unfolded it from its curled position from inside the drawer.

It was a newspaper that dated back to about six months ago. Jane felt her blood chill and skin deaden like she was turning to stone. Her heart thudded deep and slow, like the throb of blood behind a bruise.

_WOMAN VANISHED, FAMILY DISTRAUGHT_

The article beneath was too smudged for Jane to make out the story, and the sketch of whoever had supposedly gone missing might as well have been a pool of ink soaking the paper. Something small had slipped out from between the pages of the newspaper though and fell to the floor in its floated lightness. As far as Jane could see, it was a blank slip of parchment.

She bent over to pick it up and turned it over, where a much clearer sketch of a woman could be seen.

Even done in charcoal, it was clear to Jane that this woman was fair – of hair and skin, and desperately beautiful. She studied the picture for a few minutes before she recognized the familiarities of the face; same sharp cheekbones, same clear eyes – she looked like Mr. Oxenstierna.

This would’ve shaken Jane down, rattling the marrow in her very bones if something else hadn’t leaped out at her; the very expensive gem hanging at her neck from a thick chain, the crystal too muddy in its rendering to be clearly identified, though it was big and probably worth more than everything she owned combined, nestled into the hollow of her throat like she’d been carved by God’s own divine hand and gifted this gem – destined to be a relic, lost, found, revered, and destroyed.

This juxtaposed steeply with her clothes which looked provincial at best; way cheaper than anything Jane could recall wearing, the cloth looked cut from something as roughly as the burlap that carried potatoes.

She turned the sketch over again for good measure and found that the back was, in fact, not blank as she’d initially thought.

Scrawled in the lower, right corner was something Jane had earlier missed; _Loretta Oxenstierna May 18th, 1817_

-

Dinner with Katyusha as their guest was enough to stave off the shock of today’s discovery until the night hours were so dark and the promise of sleep, so pressing, that Jane fell fast into a dreamless sleep.

When she woke up the next morning, her head felt heavy and her skin was hot like someone had jammed searing lead behind her eyes. Jane dressed in a haze, wincing when the pressure between her temples flared into pain.

She met her reflection's gaze in her vanity and felt her stomach flip. Her eyes looked pitted and empty and her cheeks sallow with just a tinge of green in the muggy, gray light. For a moment, she mistook herself for a phantom.

That was silly, of course, the real ghost was sitting in her vanity’s top drawer, once again rolled up into an old newspaper. Jane wondered if perhaps Loretta had woken up in a stranger’s house some mornings, saw her own reflection, and thought of women who’d vanished into the spotting of their mother’s tears into her handkerchief and her empty place at the dinner table.

Jane shoved the thought away as she left her room and dragged herself through the halls to the drawing room, where hopefully Francis was feeling chatty enough to fill her mind with trivial things that didn’t make her skin crawl, and where a bit of toast could settle her stomach.

Upon approaching the drawing room, Jane slowed; the double doors were open, as per usual, however, there was already a second voice where her own would normally fill. 

Jane froze, her heart pounding in her chest. All of these strangers milling about the valley, carrying eggs of terrible information and secrets like bodies stuffed under the bed. Her hands unknowingly found themselves into balled firsts that bit crescent moons into her palm. She felt like a feral animal, unsuited for domestic company.

She listened hard to this strange man’s voice and then waited for Francis’ response; 

“…I just don’t know what to do anymore, Francis. She’s so young and without Hattie, things are-“

“ _Oui_ , my friend, I understand.”

Jane had half a mind to return to her room after all and just nurse the sour feeling in her stomach. She felt eerily as if she’d lived this before already. 


	17. Chapter 17

Francis’ voice kept Jane from aborting breakfast time entirely. 

Seldom did she hear him speak with such earnest tenderness to others, so different than his usual charming demeanor.

Jane walked quietly on the balls of her slippered feet and peered through the doorway.

The guest was sitting in Jane's usual seat, his back towards her. 

His sandy blonde hair was a shade lighter than Francis’ and a single bag sat at his feet beside him. Though he only had the one, it was so jam-packed with things, the leather looked like it might burst like an engorged cow.

Jane lingered too long as she tried to make sense of this stranger; handsome and with the etiquette and articulation of polite society from what she could tell, though his clothes and luggage said otherwise.

Francis caught sight of her, his gaze sliding right over his guest’s head.

“Jane, _ma chère,_ don’t just sulk in the hallway – we have a guest. Come in and say hello.”

At this the stranger looked back, electrifying the woman where she stood with his curious, green eyes. 

He’d seen her – it was too late to pretend otherwise.

Jane stepped sheepishly into the drawing room, her appetite forgotten. 

The man rose to his feet, turning to face her, and it was then that Jane realized he was holding a little girl in his arms. She couldn’t have been older than three years.

Jane's eyes fell from his face to the child’s, who gazed up at her with wide, brown eyes; a hand-me-down from the mother Jane couldn’t see.

“Jane, this is Arthur Kirkland – an old… _friend_ of mine.” 

Arthur bowed, careful to maintain his hold on the child. “Arthur, this is Jane, she’s been staying with me here at Yeatlor.” 

She returned Arthur’s bow with a curtsy.

Jane noticed that Francis forwent her last name as well as the specific nature of their relationship. If Arthur noticed this, he never mentioned it. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Jane.” Arthur turned to smile affectionately at the little girl in his arms. 

“This is my daughter, Angelica.”

Jane smiled at the child and waved her fingers.

“My, what a pretty name. It’s nice to meet you, Angelica.”

The little girl’s petal-like lips spread into a toothy grin before she raised her pudgy hands to her face.

“Angelica,” Arthur scolded gently. “Come now, we’re guests, we can’t be rude.”

“Oh, it’s I who should be making apologies – startling her before she’s finished her breakfast.”

Angelica peeked through her fingers at Jane.

“I was just going to get a spot of coffee,” Jane looked at Arthur. 

“Does anyone here happen to like hot chocolate?”

Before Arthur could answer, Angelica raised her hand excitedly, her eyes shining and shyness all but forgotten.

“I do!”

Jane looked once more to Arthur to ensure she had his permission, before turning towards the mantle at the small nod he gave her.

Francis was grinning as he watched them, perhaps relieved that Jane seemed to get on better with the Kirklands than she had with the Kohlers.

Jane returned to the table with two teacups, one with her coffee and one with Angelica’s hot chocolate. She used the smallest of silver spoons at the spread to cool it slightly, before setting it down in front of Arthur.

“Angelica, what do we say?”

“Thank you!”

“That’s right.”

Jane smiled again at the toddler.

“You’re very welcome, Miss Angelica.”

Francis shifted slightly, moving his newspaper to allow Jane more space to sit on the other side of him. Arthur watched closely as Jane took her seat beside Francis, the other man offering her, her usual toast, and then the paper. 

When their fingers met at the transfer, Arthur seemed to notice this as much as they had, though Francis and Jane refrained from outwardly acknowledging it save for the brief meeting of their eyes.

“Now then,” Arthur started, his eyes moving from their hands to Jane’s face. “Has the old frog been treating you well? He has a tendency to offer a… _particular_ brand of hospitality.” 

He shot Francis a sharp look, which was returned in kind. Jane pretended not to understand Arthur’s veiled innuendo.

“Oh, yes. Francis has been exceptionally generous - Mr. Kirkland, is it?”

“It is.”

Angelica slurped loudly from her cup. Arthur sighed, but didn’t seem inclined to scold her about it, which Jane appreciated.

“By the way, forgive me if I’m pressing too much, but is that ‘Kirkland’ as in _Jett_ Kirkland?”

Arthur grimaced.

“It'd be more accurate to say 'Jett Kirkland’ is a Kirkland as in me.”

Jane looked to Francis questioningly, trusting that he could decipher his old friend’s cryptic ways.

“Jett Kirkland is, _ah_ , Arthur’s younger brother,” he explained.

“Now that’s interesting! What a small world it is.”

Arthur sipped from his own cup, his brow still furrowed in a way that made him appear pained.

“It certainly is when you find companionship in every sad sap that passes by, like this one,” Arthur jerked his chin towards the man beside him, who smiled in return.

“No kidding. They just seem to keep dropping off onto our doorstep,” she said.

Arthur’s brow raised.

“Oh? ‘Our’ doorstep, eh? Then, Yeatlor is your permanent residence?” Arthur looked at Francis. “Are congratulations in order?”

Jane felt confusion catch in her, stopping her voice like a cork in a bottle.

“We’re not married,” Francis confirmed. “Though Jane is right – Yeatlor is as much hers as it is mine.”

Jane’s cheeks burned at this. She hadn’t even thought about what she’d been saying really – ‘our’ slipped right out as a consequence of having looked so often at the front step from the inside of the house she’d been staying – which she _rationally_ knew to not be hers.

“Ah, I apologize, Mr. Kirkland. I hadn’t intended to mislead you. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Nonsense, Jane. You ought not apologize to me in _your_ home.”

Jane didn’t know how to respond to that, so she laughed a bit awkwardly.

A beat of silence fell in the wake of this startling sound, and then Arthur was clearing his throat, trying to hurry the hiccup in the conversation into the past.

“Then, even if I was wrong on this account, you must tell me, am I right in having heard Roderich finally found a wife?”

Francis chuckled and took a sip of his coffee.

“Mm. To one Miss Héderváry – now Mrs. Edelstein.”

“Héderváry…” Arthur said thoughtfully, his face taking on a somewhat vacant appearance. “Now where have I heard that name before?”

“It’s the same Elizabeta Héderváry – Gil’s old flame.”

The spark of recognition Jane expected to see in Arthur’s eyes came and went like a candle pinched between two wet fingers. 

“Perhaps that’s where I know it from,” he said, a little vaguely.

Jane knew at once that this was not so but she couldn’t very well call him out to his face. She said nothing and an uncomfortable silence fell upon them once more.

Everyone went back to picking at their toast or sipping their drink just to look busy, which in its uniformity, failed in looking as casual as they wanted to.

Jane watched Arthur, his eyes somewhere else in the room, far away. 

Like this, she could see that he was handsome, though this fact was understated from the tired, bruise-like hollows under his eyes. His mouth was turned down slightly into a frown like it took extra effort to move the muscles in his face. He was fit, in a wiry sort of way, that offered a youthful sort of buoyancy to his stature, despite how he must’ve been pushing thirty years.

A light smattering of freckles, barely perceptible from where she sat across from him, dusted across his nose. He could’ve been a character out of a fairytale maybe, or a figure in a painting-

Oh!

It hit Jane with incredible abruptness – the subtle familiarity of his features weren’t from the generic, washed out, and in her case, ultra repressed memories of childhood legend. On the contrary, she recognized him from somewhere much more recent and in fact, not that far away. 

A quick trip out of the drawing room, a right, then the first door on the left would’ve proven this with one of the many paintings Francis had in his study, where a spryer, younger Arthur Kirkland stood christened in lush colors and strokes so seamless they could’ve been the work of God’s own hand.

The resemblance hadn’t even occurred to Jane before this moment – the downtrodden man before her eyes was _that_ far removed from the Mr. Kirkland in Francis’ study.

“Things have been tough,” Arthur started suddenly. “I returned to the valley and nothing is the same. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected things to remain the same, though, I have to admit, ever since Hattie passed, I’ve felt like I’ve been moving backward, as everyone else continues on…”

Arthur looked like he was going to say more, but then Angelica started fussing in his arms, her hot chocolate, long gone, her pudgy hands, now in search of something else to entertain her.

Jane had got to feeling that she’d spent much of her time wondering for something more from her father’s arms.

“Angelica, after breakfast, would you like me to show you around the gardens?”

Jane asked, her smile back as she looked to the little girl.

Angelica ceased her fussing and looked up.

“Yes! Flowers!”

“That’s right, lots and lots of pretty flowers.”

Arthur’s brow had retired from its vigilant arch above his eyes. 

He seemed almost calm but in a vacant way; the way someone who was chewed up and spit out and had escaped with just his life and the shirt off his back and that’s it, might look.

If he didn’t look tired before, he did now. Without Angelica to worry about in the immediate moment, he finally had time to take stock of his own exhaustion – and it was plenty.

Francis noticed this too and Jane noticed how he reached beside him to catch Arthur’s hand in his own. It might’ve alarmed Jane more if it wasn’t so tender. She noticed the light flex of his fingers as he gave Arthur’s hand a light squeeze.

Arthur’s lips twitched upwards.

“Thank you, Francis. For taking us in on such short notice, for breakfast - for everything. I truly don’t-“ his voice broke off and Jane saw that his lower lip was trembling. “I-“

“Please, Arthur. You needn’t mention it.”

-

Arthur and Francis were still in the drawing room after Jane and Angelica returned from the garden, the latter adorned with a flower crown from the blooms Jane had figured Francis wouldn’t miss much, especially when relocated to more golden of a garden.

In the garden, Jane had gotten more familiar with Angelica; had seen the frayed hem of her dress and the bruises and scrapes at her elbows and hands. These things, paired with Arthur’s weathered visage made Jane unsurprised when Francis announced that both Arthur and Angelica would be remaining at Yeatlor for the time being.

Francis looked as if some of Arthur’s hallowed exhaustion had touched him. His eyes were sobered up from their reminiscent shine, his mouth set in the aged discontent of a man who’d come to the realization that he would never have enough time.

Jane found him when Arthur and Angelica followed Mihail up to their room with their things.

“Whatever happened to ‘be wary around the Kirklands’?”

Jane had intended it to be a teasing remark but Francis sighed and grimaced.

“I am only human, after all, _ma chère.”_

Silence fell between them. Jane knew better than to push Francis. 

“Well, if you ask me, it’s high time there was another lady on the estate.” Jane shot Francis a side look and saw that he was wearing a small smile. “Angelica has a lot of ideas for the gardens, by the way, many of which include ponies.”

The smile was gone and quickly as it came.

-

Near the edge of the afternoon, as the yellow sunlight started to bronze with age, a carriage pulled up in front of Yeatlor.

Jane and Francis hadn’t been expecting anyone, and so it was again that they found themselves rising to their feet with great surprise in the drawing room when the double doors flew open and Mihail let Katyusha in.

“Miss Arlovskaya, what a-“

Katyusha’s movements were sharp and almost distressed as her skirts whipped about her legs. Something else was fluttering in her hand and it took Jane a minute to realize it was another pamphlet. She could tell it was a different one from the last she’d read because this one was almost entirely scribbled over in red – which she knew Katyusha only used for her own private satisfaction in addressing the editor’s scathing responses.

“Oh, Katyusha it’s-“

“Not about that," she cut the other woman off, much to her surprise. "Did you guys read the paper this morning?”

Francis’ eyes widened in a rare display of surprise. 

“ _Non_ , not today. There were some…special circumstances.”

“Look here.”

Katyusha folded the pages over to reveal the newspaper that the pamphlet had originally been enfolded in, pulling the parchment taut so that the words were legible. Jane and Francis looked on over her shoulders. Katyusha’s blunt entrance, uncharacteristically short of her usual niceties and pleasantness made more sense now.

“Oh? Do we have a guest? I hadn’t-“

“Come and see,” Katyusha cut Arthur off as he ventured into the drawing room, his brow raised appraisingly, both at their guest and the mysterious news she brought, which apparently, had precedence over introductions.

Arthur joined and then they were all crowded around the newspaper in Katyusha’s hands; _MASS GRAVE UNCOVERED, NO LEADS_

The picture beneath was a crude, muddled looking sketch, with a strong outline which Jane supposed, represented the outline of the grave. 

The bodies rendered inside were almost unrecognizable as such – which was less a testament to the artist’s ability and more so the state of decay they were in when they’d been found.

Beneath the upper layer of rotten viscera, the jutted ends and sharp contours of a bed of bones could be made out in the sketch.

Jane felt sick to her stomach.

“The two women who went missing…”

Katyusha grimaced.

“More than just them.”

Arthur’s brow pulled into a furrow, which deepened the shadows beneath his eyes. He looked like he was staring up out of the grave.

“My God.”

Francis’ eyes scanned the page like he was scraping the words off to keep for himself. When he finished a few moments later, he looked up at the circle, who looked to him for being the last to react in search of a returned dignified response.

“Miss Arlovskaya,” he finally said. “The grave was found in the wood near here, so I think you should stay as our guest this evening, and we’ll escort you home tomorrow.”

Katyusha looked a little more how Jane was used to her. The hardness to her face had left, though the intensity was no less. Her brow had only shifted in its arch, changing her expression from one of grim fury to one of worry.

“Please, rest easy Miss Arlovskaya – I’ll send immediate word to your family.”

Katyusha nodded though her expression never wavered. Jane wished she could wipe it away with an easy swipe of her thumb like she might tears. Honestly, people really did underestimate the ease of a good cry.

-

Yeatlor had a great number of guest rooms so that even with Arthur and Angelica staying, there were still several rooms to spare, even with another set aside for Katyusha.

Of course, all of this was irrelevant, for not an hour after everyone had bid goodnight to one another and set off to bed, Jane heard a prim knock at her door, and had opened it to find Katyusha in just her chemise.

“I’m awfully sorry, Jane,” she said, her face closing off the way it had earlier that evening. 

Jane would have none of that.

“Forget it and come in,” Jane hurried over, her figure shrinking into herself in the chill that nipped her as she went over to greet Katyusha and shut the door behind her. 

“I know it’s late and all and I don’t want to be a bother but-“

“I said forget it,” said Jane, still sounding cross. “Just get in the bed. It’s cold enough to catch your death.”

The mattress dipped as both women slipped in. They both rolled over onto their sides, peering at each other, the covers pulled up to their chins. This left their ears to take the brunt of the draft. Jane slipped under the blankets fully, leaving Katyusha to follow.

The candlelight on the nightstand provided enough light even through the blankets so that they could still see each other beneath their warm shroud.

It was considerably warmer with the other woman in the bed with her. Jane’s toes started to defrost. 

“You didn’t let me finish,” Katyusha said, smiling ruefully. 

“I was going to say that even more than just not being a bother, I didn’t want to sleep alone.”

She finally looked like herself, even if the way the blankets rubbed up against the crown of her head brought her ashy, blonde hair up in disarray.

Jane tried to keep a straight face but faltered as her lips turned into a smile at the end.

“What are we going to do with you? What would you have done if you’d been at your house, with no one’s bedroom to sneak off to? Natalya doesn’t strike me as someone who likes to share.”

Katyusha snorted.

“I’d sooner share a bed with a hedgehog than her. It would probably be less prickly too.”

Both women collapsed in a fit of giggles, their bodies curling inwards towards each other as they had before. It was as natural as the rise and fall of one’s chest when they took breath. 

Under the blanket, their conversation felt all the warmer and all the more secret. Jane’s heart thudded in her chest, anticipating, but for what, she could not name.


	18. Chapter 18

The laughter petered out, leaving a bloated warmth between them. 

Beneath this blanket was safety. Whatever horrific news made headlines for the next morning, could not penetrate the thick down duvet, nor could it worm its way between the two women, who were now close enough to count each other’s lashes. To catch them all, would give them a handsome cache of wishes between the two - perhaps even enough to melt the headaches that had seeped from the outside world, into the valley. 

This sort of closeness came so easily in such sleepy, easy heat. 

Jane felt lighter than she had in a while, save for her eyelids, which were burdened with fatigue; in her mind, it was like warm wax, seeping to gather at her eyes like thick, milky tears and seal her eyes shut. 

Such similar warmth squeezed between her ribs and welled in her chest. She could catch a whiff of the perfume Katyusha had worn earlier – orange blossom.

A wide smile spread across Jane’s lips.

“Hey.”

When she spoke, her voice had lowered into a whisper. Katyusha’s eyes crinkled at the corners, her own smile almost as wide as Jane’s.

“Hey, what?”

“Remember that night in your room? Remember our castle?”

As she said this, Jane’s hand had reached from where it had been curled at her chest, as if she’d had the faint notion of trying to snatch the words and rebuild the memory in case Katyusha could not recall it herself.

“How could I forget?”

Katyusha's eyes dropped, noticing the movement of Jane’s hand. 

Her own fingers were facing downwards against the sheets and inched towards Jane’s when the woman wasn’t looking. 

Either one of them could make the final move to close the last bit of distance between them.

Jane didn’t know what else to say. That the covers felt safer than any of the fortified walls on some magnificent chateau? That she’d bridge their fingers and steeple their hands into towers to make her feel safe? 

It all sounded like something from a poor man’s Byron.

She hesitated, unable to take her train of thought any further.

Katyusha thankfully helped Jane where she faltered by catching her fingers with her own.

“Me too,” Jane said, not a little dumbly.

Warm and soft and fluttering with a nervousness that mirrored hers, Jane felt her face warm as she watched her hand in Katyusha’s. The other woman enveloped her hand, her index finger stroking softly along the side, just below Jane's pinkie knuckle. 

In the sweet, subdued shade of the blankets, they almost looked like they were part of one body – maybe not one person, but two statues chiseled of the same stone, with the sculptor’s sole intent to bring them into this world and keep them there the very same way - together.

Jane drew as much security in the touch as she did in knowing that Katyusha had made it happen of her own volition. She eased closer to the woman, the fronts of their chemises nearly touching. She could feel the other woman’s body heat radiating off her more potently than if she’d curled up next to the fire.

Her eyes went from their hands, fitted together, to Katyusha’s face. 

She was already watching Jane, something knowing and almost prophetic in her fair eyes.

Jane’s heart was thudding in her chest now, her pulse having picked up. 

She could feel her breathing grow heavy, could feel the heat boiling beneath her skin. It was like her body was preparing to drop off into a feverish sleep. 

Perhaps they’d piled on too many blankets. Jane didn’t dare break the safety of their bubble.

She sat there and sweltered; freed her skin to the sweat that was springing at her palms and let herself get drunk off the intoxicating sweetness of Katyusha’s scent. 

Her head was spinning from the thoughts she was stirring up in her mind, too fast for her to read. She didn’t want to know what they would say because she already knew that, and she wasn’t certain her heart could take reading what it wanted so desperately when she might not have the courage to take it.

Again, Jane’s floundering was obvious, and again, Katyusha picked up where the other woman failed.

Jane was still distracted by the movement of her racing thoughts when Katyusha leaned in to press her lips to hers.

The contact struck lightning through Jane’s veins and at once, she felt her breath catch, leaving hapless silence for the soft suck of Katyusha’s mouth on hers to fill. This sudden, gutless take in her reversed into a mighty heave that Jane had no more control over than she did the tide.

Such a wave knocked into her and swept her forward; she found her body pressing itself to Katyusha, her free hand reaching up to tenderly cup at the other woman’s cheek. 

She tried to move her lips earnestly back, her thoughts clumsy, but her mouth acting with surprising wisdom. Soft and plump, Katyusha’s mouth held for Jane what she’d spent the past few nights frantically searching for in her fantasies.

Her tongue responded like she’d tasted good wine. Her body responded like nothing else.

The hand in Katyusha’s loosened, their fingers no longer needed where other, stronger ties held them. Jane was certain of almost nothing else in that moment. 

Without thinking, she pressed her hand forward, palm first, intending to curl her hand gently against the other woman’s chest – an admiring touch.

The give of Katyusha’s body beneath the thin fabric of her chemise was generous, warm, and perilously soft. 

Jane’s fingers filled with the other woman and already, she could make out the stiffening bud of her nipple against her palm.

Katyushas face dipped against Jane’s, breaking the kiss as her nose pressed against hers, her warm breath fanning in a way that had Jane’s body taking that heat and funneling it straight down between her legs.

“I-I know we teased about marriage,” Katyusha breathed, her face flushed, “but-“

“And what about it?”

Jane watched Katyusha with half-lidded eyes and pulled away, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. Her hand was still at the other woman’s breast.

Katyusha certainly had something to say, that much was clear from her little outburst, but whatever it had been, must’ve evaporated from her mind. 

Instead of answering Jane, Katyusha reached for her, her soft hands catching at the other woman’s face gently, pulling her forward into another kiss.

Her lips sealed over Jane’s softly, with the same certain safety the blankets held with them inside. Jane let her eyes flutter shut as she kissed Katyusha back, moving her lips gently, parting them, and letting them capture around the other woman’s bottom lip as if trying to catch a butterfly between her palms.

Such a moment was surely as beautiful and worthy of being studied. If Jane could've put pins in it and watched it under a magnifying glass, she might possibly waste away before it.

Katyusha’s lips were incredibly soft and full, as one would expect from admiring the rest of her. 

Jane’s hands fluttered down to do just that, leaving her breasts reluctantly to feel over the soft give of her belly and slope of her hips.

Damn it all, Jane found herself suddenly understanding those stories of men who’d lost entire fortunes they’d inherited, pissing it all away for the sake of a beautiful woman. Katyusha’s silk skin beneath her hands was the only luxury she could ever want for again.

The lower Jane’s hands trailed, the harder Katyusha kissed her, lips quickening in their pace, always soft but getting increasingly demanding. 

The push and pull between them was getting stronger. Both let the wax and wane of their own control carry them closer together, two ships in tumultuous waters. 

Jane held Katyusha tighter, her hands squeezing at the other woman’s waist. Katyusha’s lips meshed wantingly against hers in return.

When Jane sank her teeth lightly into her bottom lip, Katyusha fumbled with her kiss and let out a light gasp. Jane gave her a moment to catch her breath, eyes shifting adoringly over her face; the innate softness of her, those long, fair lashes, like cobwebs caught in the sun.

Jane felt more herself than she could ever recall when she leaned in to kiss Katyusha again. It was a rhythm her body recognized even if her mind did not, like she was filling some invisible mold. 

Jane had no idea what she was doing but she knew that it must be right.

“God, you’re so…“

Jane’s voice trailed off and Katyusha’s cheeks darkened; she still had caught the other woman’s meaning well enough.

Katyusha broke the kiss, her head ducking in uncharacteristic shyness.

“It’s a bit different without a corset.”

“Christ, you should never wear one again,” Jane breathed and pressed herself closer to Katyusha’s soft figure.

Jane’s hands plumped the woman through her chemise, each touch pressing close enough to leach the warmth of her body through the thin fabric, to memorize the way her body conformed to the onslaught of touches, before moving on somewhere else. One of Jane’s legs raised to hitch around Katyusha’s hip, driving their pelvises together.

Katyusha gasped at feeling the weight of the other woman flush against her.

“Oh, _Jane_ -“ 

Katyusha squirmed, only intensifying both the feel of and desire for her body as she rubbed herself unwittingly against her lover. Jane’s hands returned to her breasts and palmed them again, nimble fingers tweaking at the stiff nipples through the fabric of her clothes.

A breathy moan dropped from Katyusha’s lips, making the heat between Jane’s legs throb.

Jane’s hands left Katyusha’s breasts only so her fingers could hook at the loose neck of the garment. In several sharp tugs, it was slipping over the woman’s shoulders and falling away to bare her. Katyusha’s eyes pinched shut, her expression drawing into one of pain as Jane’s fingers stroked gently over her full, weighty breasts.

Her thumbs circled around her tight nipples before centering to roll the little buds under the pads of them.

“ _Ah_!-“

“You’re so lovely,” Jane whispered, nuzzling into the crook of Katyusha’s neck.

Katyusha breathed hard. Jane’s fingers never ceased in their ministrations as Jane peppered kisses at the woman’s neck and jaw. At the soft slip of her lips against Katyusha’s sensitive skin, the woman gasped, her breath stuttering in her chest 

Jane felt it against her own and couldn’t help but smile against her lover’s skin.

“Mm, you’re so soft too.”

Katyusha didn’t answer but Jane felt a gentle touch find a home in her hair. Jane let the other woman clutch her close and trailed the kisses downward, tasting the subtle salt at her skin and nuzzling eagerly into Katyusha’s cleavage.

The skin was so soft here that Jane couldn’t resist sucking lightly, wanting to feel the give of Katyusha’s curves. Her lover gasped and when Jane pulled away, a reddening, petal-like mark remained at the top of her right breast.

Jane bent down to press a soothing kiss atop the mark before dipping further against the woman’s chest. In the valley between Katyusha’s large breasts, was a scent uniquely her own – a soft mingling of the perfume Katyusha had worn and her sweat. Jane drew it in, her skin hot, the urge to remove her own chemist itching at her.

This was difficult considering how Jane was unwilling to tear herself away from Katyusha’s body at that moment, no matter how brief a time.

Her hands came down to stroke at her breasts again and then Jane sealed her lips around a nipple. When her tongue stroked over the bud, Katyusha moaned. Jane reveled in the way Katyusha's chest expanded with breath, pushing Jane further into her soft breasts. She thought she might be consumed by this woman entirely but God, what a way to go.

She sucked gently and the hold Katyusha had on her hair tightened. Jane felt the area between her legs grow wetter still.

She wondered if Katyusha felt her desire with the same fervor.

One of Jane’s hands dropped down to pull the hem of Katyusha’s chemise up, her fingers stroking up and inward, feeling the soft, dimpled flesh of her inner thighs.

“Mm, please,” Katyusha whispered.

Though she never specified, Jane could feel what it was Katyusha was begging for as if it were her own desire – and really, the two weren’t so different. Jane released Katyusha’s breast and ducked her head to watch as the gauzy, white fabric gave away to Katyusha’s fair skin. 

Whiter than her pale thighs were the stretchmarks webbed across them. Jane paused to trace her fingers over the marks reverently like she was tracing the sealed cracks in pottery. She thought of the 'golden repair' pottery she'd heard Francis speak of with his fellow art aficionados, and of how the resin used to highlight the repairs became a part of the piece's beauty. Jane thought of how women took such damage in their lives; confined, traded, abandoned, and ravaged for the fruits their bodies could bear. She thought she could now understand why loveliness was so prevalent in them. 

“I’m the luckiest person in the world.”

The admission fell from Jane’s lips without her intending to say it aloud. Katyusha’s body settled as she looked up at Jane through half-lidded eyes. 

“I’d beg to differ.”

Jane continued to move her fingers inwards to the tuft of wiry, dark curls between her legs. Katyusha’s hips raised, almost of their own accord.

Jane’s finger forged ahead to find the seam of Katyusha’s cunt and traced it. Even without spreading her lower lips, Jane could tell that Katyusha was at least as wet as she was.

The wetness was sublime, but the sounds that spilled from Katyusha’s lips in response were better.

"Mm, _oh_!-"

Jane stroked her fingers carefully, tracing them along her swollen, wet cleft. Her eyes never left Katyusha’s face, which stayed drawn in concentrated tenseness. 

Her hips lifted to cant softly against Jane’s hand as she stroked, and their pace picked up instinctively.

With two fingers, Jane felt along for the divot that marked her entrance. 

“Are you ready?” Jane murmured. “Can I put a finger in?”

“Mm, _please_.”

Jane knew well enough the technique to fitting fingers inside such a small space, though she’d never practiced on anyone other than herself before. 

She started with her index finger, sinking it gently in to the first joint. Wet and snug, Jane was at once struck with how soft the tender cleft of her sex was.

She watched Katyusha’s face for any indication of pain. 

Her head dropped back and her chest rose and fell as she waited for Jane to fill her more.

“Don’t stop.”

Jane continued to ease her finger in.

Katyusha was tight, though wet enough that Jane’s finger went in without much resistance. When Jane was in to the knuckle, Katyusha squeezed around her experimentally, and both women sighed, trying to reconcile the strangeness, both of circumstance and of sensation, that they were experiencing. It was funny really. Before tonight, Jane couldn't recall ever imagining what Katyusha was like beneath her clothes, had never even entertained the idea that maybe she might be touching her so intimately. Now, she could hardly think of anything else.

Katyusha’s thighs fell wider apart, tugging lightly at the coverage the blankets provided. Jane pumped her finger in and out slowly, a lewd, wet sound coming from the drag of her between the other woman’s legs.

When she drew out to the tip, Jane added her middle finger to where her index finger was and pushed into her again. 

She went more slowly this time given the added girth, and at the new abundance of friction, Katyusha moaned.

“ _Oh_!-“

The sound made Jane's stomach flip.

Jane pumped her fingers into her lover slowly, savoring the wet drag of her fingers and the sounds they pulled from both lips. After the first few thrusts, Katyusha’s hips twitched upwards to meet Jane’s fingers, and again, they found that their even rhythm picked up in its haste.

Given how they'd never done this before, Jane was surprised at how good they were together.

“Is that good then? Do you like it?”

Jane felt like she sounded almost too eager, compared to Katyusha’s voice, rendered heavy and decadent in her pleasure. 

“I do,” Katyusha’s voice trailed off, and Jane recognized the unspoken ‘but’ that followed almost immediately. 

“But?”

“But…” 

Katyusha hesitated.

“Come out with it already,” Jane said playfully. “You’ve got me on pins and needles over here.”

“But is it possible that there could be…that I could have… _more_?”

Jane hadn’t been expecting that. Her brow lifted. 

“More?”

Katyusha raised herself onto her elbows and peered at Jane from beneath the fringe of her lashes.

“Could you fill me more?” 

The imagery ‘filling’ brought to mind made Jane’s own sex throb. 

Would more fingers do the trick? 

Jane rubbed her fingers together, reveling in the silkiness of what Katyusha yielded in response to her touches. 

There was certainly more than enough lubrication for there to be more. But what more did Jane have to offer?

The idea took only a few moments to come to her.

“Wait now, I’ve got just the thing.”

Katyusha looked pained as Jane tore her fingers from her sex and uprooted the comfortable cocoon of their blankets to go rummaging around her room. 

Katyusha watched, wet and restless, as Jane went to the drawer of her vanity and desk, digging around for... _something_.

Just as she was about to snake an arm down to her wet slit, Jane returned to the drawer of her nightstand, her face lighting up as she yanked it open.

“Ah-ha! Here!”

Katyusha’s gaze snapped curiously to the object Jane had procured from her drawer.

Smooth, oblong, and made of wood, Jane held something that could’ve been a peculiarly curved spoke in a wheel or peg of some sort. Both ends tapered off into narrow, rounded ends, whereas one side ballooned out into a knot that had the synapses in Katyusha's brain firing with inspiration.

Men might not dare to honestly muse at its potential uses in the company of ladies, but then again, it was just ladies here.

“Goodness,” Katyusha sat up, her eyes bright. “I thought I was the only one.”

At this, Jane laughed as she clambered back onto the bed on her hands and knees, sweeping the trailing material of her chemise out of her way with the wood object in hand.

“After reading your pamphlet on the state of women in society, I knew at once I couldn’t be.” 

Jane settled back between Katyusha’s legs.

“Now, this is going to be thicker than two of my fingers. Should I-“

“Oh, for Heaven’s _sake_ , Jane, put it _in_ already.”

Grinning at the other woman’s eagerness, Jane moved the object to the seam of Katyusha’s cunt and traced along it a few times, hoping to spread some of her slick before she started pushing it in. The sight of the end of the object teasing Katyusha's folds had Jane squirming as she sat on her heels; the woman clenched her thighs together in a desperate attempt at some reprieve.

Katyusha sighed, her head dropping back against the covers luxuriously as Jane pleasured her. When the end of the object nudged against the sensitive bundle of nerves, Katyusha gasped and Jane couldn’t help but focus the object there in small, quick circles.

She did this until Katyusha’s hands forced hers lower, bumping the object against her wet entrance. 

“Jane, _please_.”

The desperation in her voice made Jane clench. She smiled at Katyusha.

“Mm, I love the sound of you begging.”

Jane started pushing the object in and as the narrow tip widened into the knot, she could feel the resistance of Katyusha’s body as her walls spread for the object. Jane eased up on the force she exerted on the object, not wanting to be too rough when she couldn’t feel the spread of the other woman firsthand.

It was strange – how an act so familiar to one’s self could simultaneously feel so alien when done to someone else. Jane’s stomach flipped, mostly in excitement, though a little in worry. 

There was a long list of things she felt she could do to herself that she wouldn’t dare try on anyone else. 

What did it say about Katyusha for Jane to feel so at ease invading her like this?

The worry, not to be so easily dissolved, still could not challenge the sight of Katyusha wanting and ready before Jane.

They took it slower than they had with her fingers, with Jane reaching her free hand over to find Katyusha’s clit again. Pausing only once so that she could wet the pad of her middle finger in her mouth, Jane flitted it over the little nub in swift circles again, occasionally tracing the finger down to stroke at her folds, above where the object was still entering her.

Where the object started to narrow again, it entered Katyusha more easily. Still, Jane never ceased her ministrations at her clit. She was too enamored with the way Katyusha’s hips would pump upwards as if trying to catch her hand, only to jostle the object nestled in her swollen sex.

Jane kept pushing until she felt the object come to a natural stop. 

She paused briefly – then remembered Katyusha’s earlier request that she not stop.

It was hard not to freeze and marvel for a moment though. Jane had never had such control over someone else, nor could she recall ever knowing someone in such an intimate way. A raw ache floundered in her chest; she felt supremely grateful that it was Katyusha in this room with her.

Jane started pumping the object in and out of Katyusha at a painstakingly slow pace. Her finger was still moving in the same flitted motions, meanwhile, a long, wanton moan fell from Katyusha’s lips.

“Oh, _yes_!”

Jane felt herself clench emptily. 

Katyusha’s chest was rising and falling more steeply as her breathing picked up and through the thin material of her chemise, Jane could make out her pert, little nipples, like cherries. She wanted so badly to suck on them but couldn’t bring herself to tear herself away from her lover’s cunt.

The resistance against the object’s widest girth ebbed away and now Jane felt as if she could thrust the object in a little quicker. 

The movements at Katyusha’s clit remained at the same pace so that now, there was almost an equilibrium struck between the two. Katyusha’s hips began to jerk upwards more frequently, occasionally stuttering on their way up, as if the muscles there tired of pulling taut that way but were powerless against the pull of desire.

As the object disappeared into Katyusha at a quicker rate, Jane adjusted her thrusts so that the object moved more shallowly too, focusing the friction to a specific area inside Katyusha. 

This took a little bit of trying.

Jane watched Katyusha’s face vigilantly as she experimented with plunging the object into her at different depths. With just the knot of the object embedded in her cunt, Katyusha seemed to have a reaction; her face twitched, her thighs snapping wider apart as if Jane had thrown them open.

“Here, then,” Jane remarked as she focused the friction of the object to this depth, focusing shallow pumps in rapid-fire.

“ _Ah_!” Katyusha gasped, her brow knitting together.

She angled the object so that she was thrusting upwards slightly into Katyusha's body and the other woman writhed at the change in sensation.

The movements of Jane’s finger and the object were matched at intensity and pace now. She watched hungrily as the object slipped into Katyusha, each wet noise making her own sex throb with want. 

Katyusha’s breath was audible now, her chest heaving, her hands balling fistfuls of the covers by her head.

Greedily, Jane yearned for that grip to be on her instead - her hair, her hips, anywhere Jane could feel the return of the pleasure she inflicted on Katyusha, reflected back in herself. It was too late for that right now though.

With her skin delightfully flushed and christened in candlelight, and her body all spread for her like this, she thought Katyusha looked positively radiant.

“I want to see more of you,” Jane said suddenly, without even really thinking about it.

If Katyusha heard her, she was in no position to answer.

That was fine. Jane knew she was getting close.

She focused her ministrations, her hands and wrists moving with machine-like tenacity as Jane forged their way straight to Katyusha’s release. 

Similar to when she first pushed the object in, Jane could feel the increased resistance as Katyusha clenched around the object. When she came, there was a haphazard frenzy of these spasms, almost as if mimicking the woman’s racing pulse. 

“Show me a side of you no one else has seen.”

The words had barely left Jane’s mouth when suddenly the resistance grew as Katyusha’s strong, inner muscles clamped down on the object. The woman pulled taut like she was a ribbon with the loops pulled tight. Jane continued to pump the object in and out of her, working her through an orgasm that came with a vengeance, wanting to ride her release for as long as she could.

“ _Ah_!-“ 

Katyusha cried out as her body unfurled wetly, her muscles relaxing as the pressure around the object in her released. Jane could feel another rush of wetness seep down to soak her fingers. The scent of sex was thick in the air, musky, and heady. 

Jane gently removed the object and brought her fingers to her mouth, sucking the remnants of the other woman from her as she watched the way her lashes fluttered like butterfly’s wings.


	19. Chapter 19

When Jane touched Katyusha again, her skin was damp and shone faintly in the candlelight.

Somehow, the fact that she was still in her chemise seemed lewder than if they’d decided to take it off. Nudity was natural – there was nothing natural or incidental about the way her chemise was bunched up just above her waist, the neckline tugged down to expose her heavy breasts.

In the aftermath of the friction of sex and Katyusha’s voice, coming in hapless mewls, the air now felt silent and stagnated. The contrast was so stark, Jane almost had to wonder how Francis hadn’t been alerted of their activities.

At this, her nose twitched.

Of course, just because he hadn’t come to knock on their door didn’t mean he hadn’t heard.

Jane shimmied up so that she was laying at Katyusha’s side, their eyes level again. The other woman’s eyes were shut, her body still emptied from the impact of her orgasm. 

Her lips were in a slight smile; she looked like she was falling and it was left to Jane to wonder if in love or asleep.

Jane inched closer and nuzzled affectionately at the woman’s ear. 

Katyusha made an inquiring sound at the back of her throat but let Jane nudge her head so that she could press a kiss to the hollow of her ear.

“That was perfect,” Jane whispered.

Katyusha lolled her head back to look at Jane, her eyes snapping open.

“What? Surely you don’t mean that we’re finished.”

Jane sat up, surprised. She had been certain that Katyusha finished.

Her lover sat up and tucked a stray lock of hair adoringly behind her ear.

“Jane, isn’t it _your_ turn now?”

-

The soft rustling of the sheets and slip of skin was a sleepy beacon to the tumultuous dark at the windows. In fact, it was like two nights were transpiring at once – the one that everyone else lived; with the boughs of trees snapping against the windowpanes and the wind howling its rage at being kept out. 

Then, there was the other that Jane and Katyusha shared, where everything outside the four walls of Jane’s room ceased to exist and where the spaces between seconds could be stretched into infinity until the sky bled azure and broke a lover’s spell.

Jane’s moans built and lapsed with the sound of the wind outside occasionally drowned out in their warmth and softness – like honey for her lover to lick from her lips.

Katyusha would readily bend her head to sample a kiss, taking it greedily for herself. 

Jane adored this. It was as if both women knew of the fleeting exquisiteness of such a singularly glorious night. They’d have been fools to consider it anything else.

-

Both of them were awakened the next morning with Charlotte’s knock at the door. Katyusha was contented to doze on for a few more moments but Jane jackknifed to an upright position, her eyes wide, her heart pounding.

In the next instance, she had thrown herself into digging around the ocean of sheets for her chemise – she and Katyusha had slept in the nude. 

It had been blissfully soft until morning came and brought with it this hellish panic.

“ _Katyusha_!” Jane hissed.

“Mm?”

Katyusha seemed awake enough, though her eyes were still shut and hair still delectably mussed from the night’s activities.

To Charlotte, Jane called out a frantic ‘Just a moment please!’

She knew the maid had heard when the door didn’t open.

“Katyusha, Charlotte’s here to get us – or, well, me - for breakfast. We have to get up!”

“Mm,” a sleepy smile spread at Katyusha’s lips. “Breakfast. Sounds lovely. Five more minutes.”

“She’ll be off to your room _next_.”

Katyusha’s eyes snapped open and then both women were frantically pawing around the sheets. After a few moments, Jane found the wood object from the night before buried among the covers. She held it up triumphantly for a moment so Katyusha could see before she lunged across the bed to toss it into her nightstand drawer and slammed the drawer shut.

“Jane!”

Jane saw her chemise pooled conveniently on the floor and went to tug it hastily over herself again.

“ _Jane!_ ”

Jane’s head emerged through the head hole of the garment.

“What is it?”

“I can’t find it! My chemise! It’s _gone_!”

“What? It can’t be gone.”

“I can’t find it!”

Katyusha whimpered and then both women had set to frantically digging around the bed area. One look underneath had shown that Katyusha’s chemise hadn’t met the same easy-to-find end Jane’s had. 

“Miss Doe – Mr. Bonnefoy and Mr. Kirkland will be waiting. We really ought to get a move on.”

“Yes, you’re right Charlotte! Uh-“

Jane looked at Katyusha, who was only wearing her sheets. Most evidence of what had happened the night before had been successfully whisked away – save for the naked woman in her bed, of course. 

“I’m coming in.”

The door started to open and Katyusha dove beneath the covers just in time to salvage her modesty. Charlotte came in, her face impassive. 

She tugged open the curtains like it was business as usual and then went to the closet to pull Jane’s day dress. Perhaps Charlotte was none the wiser after all.

“Good morning, Miss Doe.”

“Morning, Charlotte.”

Without skipping a beat, Charlotte went to the vanity to fetch the porcelain washbasin to fill it with fresh water.

“Good morning, Miss Arlovskaya.”

Jane froze. A beat of silence fell. Then a muffled ‘Good morning, Charlotte’ could be heard from the bed.

“I’ll be back soon with warm water,” Charlotte said, basin in hand as she lingered in the doorway. 

Turning to look at Jane over her shoulder, she raised an eyebrow, her lips turned up into the faintest of smiles so that there could be no mistake of intent. 

“Shall I bring Miss Arlovskaya’s daywear as well?”

-

Though the four of them convened for breakfast in the drawing room, there seemed to be two intimate spaces within the room, their barriers unseen but their effects apparent in a way that made it seem as if Arthur and Francis were sharing their own private breakfast, separate from Katyusha and Jane.

In fact, aside from a few short words in greeting, the first pair and second pair hardly interacted, except for when Francis passed Jane a copy of the morning paper – he and Arthur shared their own.

It did not escape Jane’s notice when Francis poured one cup of coffee for himself, and then a cup of tea with a spot of milk – the latter certainly _not_ for himself.

It seemed Francis was a particularly gracious host this morning.

With Mr. Kirkland well taken care of, Jane and Katyusha spent their breakfast in similar domestic bliss, their slippered feet meeting periodically beneath the table. Jane thought it was funny, how something that had made her stomach turn just days ago, could suddenly bring butterflies to it instead.

Francis sent Katyusha back to Crystal Lake in one of Yeatlor’s carriages after everyone had finished eating and Jane was grateful for the privacy he afforded them in staying to wave her off by the front step, leaving Jane to walk the woman to the coach.

They paused as the footman opened the door, waiting patiently for them to finish.

Katyusha’s hands came to Jane’s shoulders, studying her as if she would need to rely on memory to see her again when she next wanted to. 

Though there had been no mention of seeing (or not seeing) each other again soon, Jane felt this similar unspoken dalliance and was similarly inclined. She reached up to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from Katyusha’s face.

“Be safe.”

“You as well,” Katyusha said, her expression firming up for just a second. “Thank you for all your hospitality. Tell Mr. Bonnefoy for me as well, yes?”

"Of course."

Jane offered her hand to help Katyusha into the coach, her fingers lingering for a moment before Jane stepped back and the door shut. 

She watched as Katyusha's palm came up against the other side of the glass, the parts where she pressed more firmly felt as intimately as if she were pressing it against Jane's cheek. 

When a lonely little pang settled in her chest, she raised her own hand to wave it away and Katyusha off.

They never said goodbye for too long - Jane tried to draw comfort from this meager reassurance she paid herself as she watched the coach round the curve of the dirt path and pull out of sight.

-

Katyusha had left hours before the sun had reached its apex in the sky, and still, the rest of the day was all but ruined for Jane. In every sun-soaked corner of the great house, she saw the candlelight on Katyusha’s skin. When she passed through a slat of sunlight filtering in through one of the large windows, the warmth on her skin was like the fever of sex rekindled.

What was Katyusha doing now? Thinking about her? Of the night they shared?

Jane could think of hardly anything else.

The minutes ticked by sluggishly and Jane passed them all in her mind, where she mostly thought of the night before, and occasionally, Francis and Mrs. Kohler.

No longer did her stomach sour when she thought of his hands on her, though that’s not to say Jane liked the idea any more than she originally did.

She could perhaps understand it a bit better now, though.

Women were soft and the hint one got of their bodies through the thin, gauzy fabric of their chemises could be no less tempting than the tang of blood to a ravenous beast. It was a near magnetic pull, to feel and be felt in return. To be as close to another person as one could, to build secrets with their body that were burned into both memories, still as fresh as they were a few moments after as when both partners were gray with age and had one foot in the grave.

Even Mrs. Kohler didn’t seem so bad through the rosy filter of attraction.

Jane gave herself a little shake, feeling the strange thought scatter from her like dust. No, no, that was silly. It wasn’t the same thing at all – she was _nothing_ like Mrs. Kohler, nor was Katyusha.

For one thing, neither she nor Katyusha was married.

Then again, when unmarried women had sex, they were ‘ruined’, were they not? At least Mrs. Kohler had had the decency to keep her honor intact for her wedding night before doing away with it entirely.

Technically, according to the society they lived in, what Jane and Katyusha had taken from each other, couldn’t be returned. Something was wholly missing from them now. Jane could remember, very clearly, how Katyusha had explained this in her column. 

What she didn’t understand was how she felt. 

She couldn’t be further from emptiness and if someone had come to her then to tell her that something was missing, she would’ve resolutely declared that such a thing couldn’t possibly have belonged in the first place, for how completed she felt now.

Maybe she couldn’t trust this feeling though; it could easily be some guarded, subconscious attempt to smash down her guilt. 

Guilt for what though? What had she done? What crime had she committed? 

It was hard to find anything wrong in such pleasant memories.

She hadn’t thought before literally jumping into bed with Katyusha – but Jane hadn’t ever seen a man jailed for his impulsiveness.

Was she possibly guilty of ruining the other woman then? By that logic, then Katyusha was equally at fault for ‘ruining’ Jane, and so then maybe they canceled out.

This, Jane decided, had to be it, because even after combing through her memories of the night before, she felt not the least bit ruined at all. 

In fact, she felt great – her skin seemed to glow, she was in high spirits, and there was a sort of spring in her step.

This ‘settled’ feeling on the matter only lasted a few short minutes before another matter cropped up in her mind. More specifically, the cold-eyed, silver-blonde visage of Mrs. Arlovskaya.

Jane had only met the woman once, and yet, the fruit of their meeting had essentially been the knowledge that Mrs. Arlovskaya, more than her great, fancy estate and lovely trinkets, wanted her daughters good and settled into their own estates with their own trinkets.

Perhaps she even dared to hope for her daughters to have greater luck than she did – maybe one would even birth a son.

It was true that Katyusha was only getting older at twenty and eight years.

If she had been a man, the matter of Katyusha’s honor would’ve been settled and rectified by their marriage. By law though, as a woman, Jane couldn’t fix it in this way.

Suddenly, that first night in Katyusha’s room, with the talk of their castle felt cruel in its own right.

So maybe that was what she’d done wrong; impulse wasn’t the crime itself, nor was pleasure. It was not being able to clean up in the wake of her exploits, that she was guilty of. Had one night been worth hardship for the rest of their lives? 

Was Jane twice as guilty if she answered ‘yes’?

Such a question was too big for anyone to answer, her own soul too close to truly condemn whatever immoral acts she’d committed.

It was with a heavy heart that Jane decided perhaps, it was time for her to make a solo pilgrimage to church.

-

Jane changed her clothes by herself. 

The light, beige dress she’d been wearing felt like a dirty white to her – like she was coated in her own tainted honor and wore her guilty conscience on her sleeve.

She changed into a pristinely white gown. Even the embroidered, thin, outer layer – unless someone drew indecently close to her - could scarcely be discerned in its embellishments.

It was white fitting for a wedding day; pious. Pure.

It was the sort of dress that was so unblemished, it almost demanded a carriage to go out. One speck of dust or silt would’ve been as noticeable as a target painted on her.

Jane forwent the coach anyway, not wanting to drag attention to the fact that she was leaving the estate, lest someone ask where she was going and, then of course, why. 

She walked, _very carefully_ , her cloak a woodsy, plain brown as if it might catch mud and dirt away from her dress like a magnet.

The little church attended by many in the valley was a pleasant walk away from Yeatlor, marked by a meandering path, well-trodden by horses that came by the way. Jane’s care on the matter of cleanliness seemed to pay off at first.

Her inattention regarding other potential dangers, came back to bite her swiftly though; the hem of her dress caught on a section of unkept, splintered fence and chewed off a piece.

From here on, a portion of her hem trailed sadly against the ground, picking up dirt and leaching it further along the edge of her dress’ skirt.

Lucky for her, no service was being held today, so when she finally arrived at the quaint chapel, there didn’t seem to be anyone to notice her sad, little indiscretion.

Of course, now that she was here, alone at church, she wasn’t quite sure what to do. She’d come for absolution.

Or maybe not even that; really, she’d come to feel _better_. 

To be honest, though, she hadn’t really thought about how she’d go about doing that. Moreover, it had been so long since she’d been to church. What did people do here again? …Pray…?

Jane picked her way among the scrubby patches of grass dotting the area around the chapel. An elm tree grew by the entryway, the boughs on the left side of it arcing over the front doorway like it was trying to make one of its own. The white paint on the wood was chipping but with the picturesque countryside as its backdrop, it looked less like it was worn down and more like it had been weathered from use and love, like a favorite garment. At once, Jane felt the atmosphere shift, though still, she didn’t see anyone here.

She entered the building, tasting the draftiness in the breath she took. 

If she felt smothered by her thoughts back at Yeatlor, then it was completely different here – all space. She could line up every single one of her petty worries and anxieties and spread them out and still have plenty of room to pace.

The altar was at the back of the little chapel, set behind the vacant podium. Jane walked up the center aisle, her footsteps muted against the red carpet spread before her. She turned inward towards the pews at the third row.

It was quiet. She took her seat awkwardly and the old wood groaned under her weight.

She didn’t really know how to pray, what to ask for, or even really, _who_ she was asking. 

Who was God? If she had transgressed on the purity of hers and Katyusha’s virginities, then what could he possibly offer her? What absolution was there for something that couldn’t be undone or a ‘mistake’ she didn’t even really care to ‘fix’?

Jane stared at the front of the hall from her pew and imagined someone looking down at her, ready to exact judgment. Her skin prickled; she felt like she’d already been condemned. 

There was a heated defensiveness simmering in her – she wanted to bite back at a hand that she didn’t even believe existed, let alone feed her.

On one of the side walls, was a painting of the Virgin Mary.

Did they know for certain that she was a virgin? How was it that she could conceive a child and have her story consistently retell her as a virgin for centuries afterward, whereas these days, all it took was a playful look in a woman’s eye, and some half-wit’s word to condemn her as a whore in the eyes of society?

Maybe sex wasn’t the determining factor of morality here after all – maybe it was all just one, big popularity contest.

Scarlet letters, she thought, were not placed upon women as a punishment for scandalous, salacious, or perverse acts. 

They were born with them and society turned a blind eye until it was convenient to turn, wide-eyed with outrage and point a finger, trembling under the weight of their ire; _temptress! Whore!_

Similarly, witch hunts hadn’t really gone out of style – they just skipped the part where they burned women at the stakes and chose to treat her as if she was already dead. Prospects dashed away, a once long-stretched future, unspooled before her like yarn now cut perilously short with the suddenness of wandering straight off the edge of a cliff. 

To families, she could not be more gone to them than if she’d disappeared beyond the grave; ‘ _Oh, poor Catherine, she was such a good girl._ ’ 

Thinking of such things in an empty church felt so morbid. 

Jane cut the train of thought off then and there but she could not help the lingering chill, like the shadow of her departing thoughts passed over her – _poor Katyusha, she had so much going for her._


	20. Chapter 20

“I didn’t know you went to church.”

A familiar voice startled her out of her thoughts. Her surprise at hearing another voice at all was so much, that it took her another moment to recognize who was speaking.

Her eyes widened when she whipped around to look in the direction the voice had come from. One white-gloved hand came up to her mouth as a dull sting burned her eyes.

He looked a little paler than she last remembered. His brown eyes looked weary and frayed, like a threadbare blanket, and just beneath them were two, bruise-like splotches that seemed to emphasize the depth of the sockets, giving his eyes an almost sunken look. 

Despite all of this though, he was smiling. Though only a phantom to his usual vibrant demeanor, it was achingly familiar and just as welcomed to Jane, who hadn’t seen him since she’d visited him just after he was attacked.

Jane rose to her feet and then realizing she didn’t quite know what to do with herself, she sort of just stood there, her hands uncertain in front of her, stiff and arched like the spines of bristling cats.

Feliciano didn’t say anything, just stood watching her from the aisle between pews. Jane could tell he felt as unsure in their current circumstances as she was.

“It’s…you.”

His smile widened because he couldn’t bring himself to laugh and it was still only a fraction of what it used to be.

“It’s me.”

There was a hesitation that wasn’t entirely hers nor Feliciano’s. 

It existed in the space between them, challenging them to cross it. Eventually, they did, meeting in the middle for a clumsy, but desperately-needed hug.

Only the chapel witnessed it – the Virgin Mary’s eyes were turned up towards the drafty rafters.

“I was so worried about you,” Jane breathed, her eyes stinging. 

The words just barely reached the shell of his ear. His grasp around her tightened in a way that would’ve made the gesture terribly indecent should anyone else have been there to see them.

She could feel the faint lift of his shoulder blades as he took in a breath. It felt so _small_ , so _fragile_ , like the pulse of a baby bird.

“Eliza said you came to visit when I was…”

They stepped back so that they could see each other but didn’t let go.

“Oh, Feli, no one’s been okay since you’ve been attacked. Between that and the mass graves, the whole valley is outraged, scared…”

“And you?” he asked. “Are you scared?”

Jane didn’t know how to answer.

She watched as Feliciano raised a hand to her cheek and stroked his thumb across the flat of it. When he drew it back to show her the tear he caught at the pad of his thumb, she was surprised and raised her own fingers to her face to catch any of the remaining wetness.

“Oh, I’m alright.”

Feliciano looked at her, clearly unconvinced.

“Truly,” she insisted.

Another awkward, little silence befell them. Jane’s eyes fell to her hands, her fingers fidgeting with each other as if they might break something fragile if she dared move to take up any more space.

After a few moments of this, Feliciano cleared his throat.

“It’s lovely weather today. Shall we sit outside for a bit?”

Jane was relieved at the suggestion – she wondered if she’d have better luck finding her brain and tongue without the invisible scrutiny of whatever higher power took up in the drafty, little chapel.

“Yes, let’s.”

The way outside was taken considerably quicker than the path in. 

Jane could once again feel the ease of breathing freely with the sun warming her skin and the ground soft underfoot. 

By the side of the chapel, was a little bench, it’ paint-chipped wood matching that of the building. 

Jane thought nothing of dirt as she and Feliciano picked their way through the scrubby grass and clusters of wildflowers, her arm looped through his, to take a little rest.

The wood sighed under their added weight. The sky was so blue, she thought the stars must’ve been working tirelessly throughout the night to dye it the perfect shade of cornflower blue. 

Some ways away, bees buzzed. Even though Jane still had nothing to say, they filled the silence comfortably. She held on tighter to Feliciano, her gloved thumb stroking lightly over his bare hand, tracing the sleeve of his jacket, studying the way it encased his tan, fine-boned wrist.

“You know,” he said when they’d been sitting like this for a little bit. “You were the last person I expected to see at a church. I didn’t think you were religious.”

“I’m not. My heart just felt…heavy,” she hesitated. “I did something to make it that way.”

Feliciano nodded and reached up with his free hand to rub his jaw thoughtfully.

“I haven’t been here as often as I’d like lately, due to my apprenticeship. I can understand needing a bit of guidance.”

Jane watched Feliciano as he said this. It was still the face of her dear friend, and yet, there was something alien about him. A quality new to him but aged itself, about his features, like he’d endured ten years in as many minutes.

Her eyes searched his hair as if to confirm he wasn’t graying.

Feliciano’s eyes fell shut. He looked like he was catching his breath, or maybe dozing off.

Jane took this opportunity to shift her hand downwards from his wrist so that she could grab his hand more substantially. Feliciano opened his eyes as she threaded her fingers through his, her thumb brushing over the back of his hand.

At the contact, he opened his eyes and gave Jane a small smile.

“I thought being outside would make things happier but I’ve seemed to have just brought them down again.”

“We make quite the pair here, don’t we?”

Feliciano laughed and gave her hand a squeeze.

“I don’t think either of us will find what we’re looking for here. Can I offer you a ride home in my carriage?”

Disappointment dropped in her at the prospects of cutting the pleasantries of the afternoon short.

“Oh, I don’t want to impose – it really is just a short walk from Yeatlor.”

“Think nothing of the sort! It would bring me the greatest pleasure to share your company a few moments longer, Jane.”

 _This_ was the Feliciano she had missed; the charming socialite who seemed like a prince, even if he was only privy to his master’s estate out of convenience and courtesy to his apprenticeship.

“Then I certainly can’t refuse, can I?”

They made their way to Feliciano’s coach, waiting at the road in front of the chapel, the same way they’d made their way out to the bench with their arms linked.

At the carriage, the footman from the Edelstein estate fetched the door for them. Feliciano offered Jane his hand to help her up and when she accepted it, she was pleased to find that he was more solid than he looked, in light of recent events.

Feliciano stepped in after her and caught her watching something that had caught her attention upon entering the coach.

Jane cocked her head to the side.

“Are those…strawberries?”

She was looking at the basket, lined with cloth and resting on the seat across from her, beside Feliciano. 

Apparently having forgotten about them, he had to turn to look at where she'd fixed her eyes in order to understand what she could be talking about. When he did, he grinned.

“That’s right! When I left, Eliza sent them with me, in case I felt weak or peckish.”

The thought made Jane smile; he had really seemed to take to life with the Edelsteins and no doubt, they’d really taken to him in return.

The carriage lurched into motion and Jane felt herself jostle as the wheels bumped along the road.

Feliciano gestured to the basket.

“Would you like some? They're fresh, I’ll bet. Eliza seldom deals with anything less.”

Jane couldn’t help but smile at the playfulness that had seeped into Feliciano’s voice. Things were starting to feel a little more normal and it improved her formerly sullen mood splendidly.

“Why not?”

Jane had been all ready to reach across to the other seat where she could pluck a berry from the top. Feliciano, who seemed to have a different idea, beat her to it and took one between his thumb and index finger.

When he reached over to hold it out to Jane, she blinked at him. A heat she couldn’t place was simmering at her cheeks; he held it closer to her face than her hands. She had half a mind to reach up and take it from his fingers anyway.

For a moment, her mind blanked. 

If she’d been able to think at all, she would’ve remembered that she felt something very similar with Katyusha – this gap in logic, this fault in her thoughts.

Similar to how she’d dealt with such absence the night prior, Jane cleared it once more by taking a leap of faith.

Before she could even think about how warm it had suddenly gotten or how appalled Francis would’ve been if he knew what she was doing, she leaned in and took the fruit in her mouth. Feliciano’s fingers seemed to linger at her lips as the berry disappeared between them – an almost kiss.

There was a pause.

Feliciano didn’t seem surprised in the least, and nor was Jane. Both of them seemed to be taking stock of this development of sorts. They’d always been friendly, and if asked, Jane would’ve said she trusted him completely.

Both of these things did nothing to explain the physical frontier they’d just pushed through.

“And you? Did you want one too?” Jane asked, innocently enough.

The corners of Feliciano's eyes crinkled.

“I’d love one.”

Even though the basket was closer to Feliciano, Jane reached over to take a berry off the top and held it out in offering, again, closer to his face than his hands.

Feliciano leaned in to accept it, his eyes falling to half-lids. He looked more certain than she felt – perhaps she hadn’t imagined the spark in the air after all.

As soon as she thought she knew where they stood, Feliciano changed the game again by catching her wrist in a firm grip, holding her so that the pads of her fingers grazed his lips.

Jane watched, mesmerized by the small movements of his jaw as he chewed and the lovely column of his throat as he swallowed. 

When he had, he was careful now –- no more almost-kisses –- his warm, brown eyes found hers as he kissed each individual finger, nipping playfully at her index one.

Jane gasped as she felt his teeth graze her.

Out of instinct, she jerked her hand back, but still, it was caught in his warm grip.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I seem to have this terrible habit of causing you distress these days.”

He pressed one last kiss to the finger he’d bitten, his lips curving up into a smile that had an impish edge Jane wasn’t used to on him.

He never released her and she never tried to move away – they sat there in the coach, Feliciano’s hand still wrapped around her wrist, his lips still at her fingertips. Jane liked the thought of this – like she could reach out, and pluck a kiss from him as easily as she might reach into the basket and pick up a strawberry.

Her eyes met his, her skin swimming with heat. A part of her recognized the way her pulse picked up and how the hot-fuzziness of her nerves seemed to melt any and all cognitive functions. 

She was acutely aware of how she’d felt this way the night prior. Without even thinking about it, she had a feeling of what the immediate future held.

As she wondered if Feliciano could make out the labored quality of her breathing, she noticed she could see the quick rise and fall of his chest, even through his shirt. She had half a mind to reach her free hand out to feel it for herself, to have his heart thudding in the palm of her hand.

Before she could though, Feliciano got up and moved into the empty space on the bench beside her. Jane could feel his body heat radiate off of him as his thigh pressed against hers.

He never let go of her hand.

“Jane,” he whispered, and the cadence of her name in his voice almost sent a shiver up her spine. “I’ve wanted to do this since I first met you.”

She had no time to ask what ‘this’ was because then Feliciano closed the distance between them and pulled her into a warm kiss.

Her brain was doing it again — circulating nothing. Meanwhile, her heart took up the burden of processing everything. Was this handsome, dear man really kissing her? 

The moment their lips made contact she seemed to melt into him, leaning forward until she fell into him completely, his body swallowing her up. His hands had smoothed their way up to her shoulders, curling around her back. A part of her was tracking this movement for the delicious trails of heat they soothed into her skin and the rest of her was lost to his kiss. She couldn’t even think about how to return it; her lips moved like clay under a potter’s fingers.

She saw it so clearly then; he truly was an artist!

She let herself draw closer to him, revolving around him, the moon, the stars, and all the space in between, though it was her head that felt like it was spinning.

She felt like she was plummeting through infinity with him, his lips parting at the end of each kiss to unfold into a new one.

She could hardly recall how she’d gotten into his lap until she became painfully aware of his hand cupping her thigh outside her skirts, holding her onto him, his other between her shoulder blades.

The carriage hit a bump — or hole, or _something_ — outside that rattled them together like a pair of dice.

The jolt bounced her right onto something hard nestled between her and Feliciano’s lap; now the hard place was trapped between _them_. If she could’ve thought at all, she would’ve smiled at the irony.

Meanwhile, he groaned at the delicious feeling of her weight on him.

Feliciano never broke the kiss as the hand at her back left to grope blindly for the end of the shade of the window separating the coach driver and them. 

He yanked it shut, and it was like the inside of the coach was shut off from the rest of the world.

The ride back to Yeatlor from the church was a short one – both of them were very aware of this fact as they held each other. This is why Jane was unsurprised when she felt a pulling from the hand at her thigh as Feliciano started tugging her skirts up. She was, however, surprised when she felt him pause.

He broke the kiss first to look down at what had caught his attention. 

Jane looked too.

In Feliciano’s hand was the section of her hem that had torn on her way to the church, muddied and tattered, embarrassment swelled in her. She suddenly was doubtful of being on his lap, in his arms.

For a moment he looked like he wanted to say something. 

The guilt Jane had been entertaining before bubbled up in her again. 

_How awful_ , she thought. 

In her mind, she was closing her eyes and flinging herself over the edge of a cliff into treacherous waters below. It was less scary if she didn’t think about it.

Not giving Feliciano a chance to get a word in, she eased herself back so her hands could find the front of his trousers, where she popped the buttons and tugged them loose.

He barely had time to look down and watch as she tunneled a hand into the waistband of his pants before she was reaching up to cup his cheek with her other hand, guiding his face up so she could crash her mouth against his.

Feliciano groaned with how fervently she kissed him, his attention immediately snatched from her torn dress. Jane retained control of the kiss for but a moment before Feliciano tore his mouth from her soft lips and veered away to kiss her neck.

As soon as his mouth found the sensitive skin there, Jane moaned, the hand at his cheek falling to the front of his shirt, balling the material in a tight fist.

When he kissed her like this, it was like she was stuck in free-fall, with no risk of hitting the ground below, just this exciting swoop of her stomach and weightlessness.

His lips seemed intent on making a mess of her as he mouthed at her neck, lavishing his tongue against her and sucking if only to feel how her breath stuttered in her.

His hands tried their best to tidy up in the wake of his desirous kisses, stroking her cheeks with a sweetness that masqueraded at trying to wipe the fever away before tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His ministrations stalled and Feliciano groaned as the hand in his trousers eased his cock out, hard, hot, and velvet in her hand.

At the back of her mind, she realized it was her first time handling one.

Closing her eyes _had_ helped with nerves.

“I…how do I…?”

Jane’s cheeks burned, a feeling that intensified when Feliciano’s chuckle buzzed against her.

“Like this…”

His hand found and closed over hers, slinking it along his erection. He guided her through the first few pumps and then released her when she seemed to get the hang of it. 

He grunted as she worked his cock.

“This is okay?”

“Mm.”

His chest rose and fell steeply, his face drawing into a tense expression, eyes pinched shut. Jane felt herself clench emptily, the place between her thighs getting sticky with her slick. She kept moving her hand, feeling a damp heat curl around her.

After a minute, his hand found hers again, stopping her.

She looked at him.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Feliciano reached up to caress her face.

“No, not at all,” his voice was tense. “But – I’m sorry, we don’t have much time and—”

“Ah, you’re right.”

Jane felt like a fist was clammed up in her gut. 


	21. Chapter 21

Feliciano’s eyes were bright.

“Unless, of course, you don’t feel ready. We didn’t have time to prepare you really and-“

He was giving her an out in an almost poetic parallel to the weight she’d been entertaining in her chest all day. The fact that he was mentioning forgoing what they both seemed to want to happen next, despite how ardently he so clearly burned for her, only confirmed what Jane had fretted about – this was significant.

“No, I shall be fine.”

Jane lifted her hips and tilted her pelvis so that she could grind her swollen, wet cunt against the engorged head of his cock. Feliciano’s head dropped back and his brow knitted together.

“ _Ah_ \- _mio Dio_ -“

“You see, I actually had some practice last night.”

Jane had been trying the phrase out teasingly, in part to soothe Feliciano’s nerves or else to ease her own guilt.

His tip was pressed at her entrance, not pushing in yet, but close enough that when she clenched, he could feel the fluttered movement, like a kiss against his head. It put a wonderful image in his mind.

His hands were at her hips, holding her steady above him. Feliciano was gripping her so tightly that his hands were shaking slightly. Jane resisted the urge to drop her hips just yet.

“Is that what made your heart feel so heavy? Why you came today?”

These were not the questions she had been expecting him to ask. The area between her legs was getting slipperier by the second as Feliciano’s tip twitched hotly against her. Rather than answer, she tested herself on it, taking an inch or so of him in.

She could feel the faint burn, hotter and snugger than when Katyusha had used their little trinket the night prior. Jane’s assumption that she could endure it was correct though; she had been wet for a while now – perhaps since they’d hugged - so even though she hadn’t prepared for his girth, she was slick enough that moving slowly, taking Feliciano inside of her was no ordeal.

At the feel of her tight heat, the grip on her hips tightened. Jane’s breathing roughened at the sting of his nails through the material of her gown; it was almost like it was feeding the friction. 

She squeezed around him and a breathy, desperate sound fell from his lips.

“ _Oh_!-“

She watched his chest as he gasped for breath. Jane was so focused on this that she didn’t even notice when one of his hands came up to cup her cheek, guiding her gaze back to his own.

She had never seen him so serious looking, his half-lidded eyes shining even when enfolded by the dimness of the carriage, his brow knitted into a deep furrow.

“Jane,” he said softly, his thumb stroking over the flat of her cheek. 

It was so achingly tender that even the gentle throb of him inside of her felt affectionate for a moment. “You mustn’t—you shouldn’t feel guilty about it. Feeling pleasure, that is.”

The weight in her chest was upheaved with an abruptness that almost knocked the wind out of her. Not gone, but maybe like it had shifted positions inside of her. She let out a little breath of surprise. She had gotten a taste of what it might've felt like to be without her guilt. There had been no buoyancy, as she'd expected, instead, just crippling emptiness. Her eyes stung, which was only exacerbated by how humiliating it felt to be swimming around in her feelings when this lovely man was inside of her.

Katyusha would’ve pitched a fit at what he’d said – sweet as it was, it just simply wasn’t true. Not in any way that mattered to women. What good were your principles and ethics if only you could see them? Certainly, somewhat good in their own right though the one harboring them would scarcely be able to see it.

“It’s different for you.” Her voice strained like her inner walls as she adjusted to his length. She shifted her hips, wriggling to test the boundaries of sensation and Feliciano grunted. “You’re a man.”

The carriage rocked, fraught by the uneven road again. The motion caused Jane and Feliciano, bodies meshed together, to lurch inside the coach. The shift in angle, reverberation of the movement inside of her, as well as Feliciano’s grip, which held her tighter to steady her on his lap, all pulled twin moans from the lovers.

Jane rolled her hips against his and settled into the warm drag of him inside of her. Oh, how the real thing was so much better than the little trinket they’d used before – so warm and hard and wrapped in the silk of his skin. 

At the beginning of each stroke, she could feel a fresh peal of pleasure. 

Her body was aware of Feliciano in a way she hadn’t thought possible; she felt like the instrument he played so well, her body ringing in response to him like strings at his fingers.

At each circled motion of her hips over him, her bosom was brought closer to his face, which he planted firmly into her cleavage. The combined movements of the coach and the way she rocked against him made the soft tops of her breasts bounce, despite the way her corset struggled to hold them in place.

“I wish we had more time,” he grunted. “I wish I could see _all_ of you.”

Feliciano fixed a glassy-eyed stare to the tops of her breasts, his head bowed against them like he was searching for the rest of her. Jane wanted to reach for the front of her dress and tear it all away so he could – she could remember how delectable Katyusha looked fully bared to her the night before. The idea of Feliciano seeing her that way made her clench, her desire only growing.

His hands shifted from her hips, slinking upward to stroke at her back, his fingers blazing heat through her even with the thin fabric of her dress in the way. When he stroked his fingers back down, she felt like he was almost trying to work her into him with the fluid movements of a sculptor working clay. Like he was trying to fuse them together.

The dragging touches and feel of him inside her were enough to make her gasp, her head dropping back so she had room to cry out.

“ _Oh_!-“

Feliciano’s hips jolted upwards to spear himself deeper into her. The sudden roughness in him had the shivery heat inside Jane trembling like a tightly closed fist. She held on tighter to him and felt his grip mirror hers but still – she felt like she was on the verge of letting something go.

Out of the main side window, she could see the fence she’d passed on the way to the church earlier, lengths of wood leaned up against one another and piled in the tall grass. They couldn’t have been far from Yeatlor now. She squeezed around him tight, waited for the choked sound of his breath in his throat, and then did it again; they needed to finish this quick.

“Jane, I’m sorry, I-“

Another frantic breath cut him off mid-sentence. Jane felt him twitch inside of her. When she dropped her hips again, the grinding movement of her sex over him caught her clit and she clenched – she was close.

Feliciano tensed beneath her suddenly, like every part of him was pulled taut. Warmth spread inside of her and he sagged beneath her.

Jane couldn’t stop her brow from raising in surprise. She squeezed around him again and this time instead of the gloriously tight friction she’d felt before, it was like she was filled with a warm, seeping softness.

It took her a moment to realize Feliciano had finished. 

Her own desperate arousal flared as if she’d forgotten about it, imploring for her attention.

Feliciano’s body, spent from his release lurched to life beneath her, his hands folding over to hold her to him again.

“I’m so sorry, Jane, you haven’t…?”

For a moment, the intensity of her unsated desire disappeared as embarrassment welled in her. She had been flustered when Katyusha inquired about her finish the night prior, but here, with Feliciano asking after it, she almost felt worst. It felt strange to discuss such things with a man.

She shook her head, looking out the window as if the familiar way back to Yeatlor suddenly interested her. She brushed her fingers by her ear, though none of her hair had become untucked.

“It’s alright though.”

The restlessness at her skin was beating at her from the inside, refusing to let her make such false claims. Feliciano frowned.

“No, of course, it’s not, I usually don’t—” his face flushed. “Let me take care of you. I still have perfectly good fingers, yes? And a mouth?”

At the mention of using his mouth, Jane’s own face warmed. 

Meanwhile, the carriage lurched to a halt. Jane scrambled off of Feliciano’s lap to yank her skirts back down but before she could, Feliciano had pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. She felt his spend leak out of her and stick at her inner thighs where the kerchief in his hand caught it. He wiped upward in smooth strokes along her soft skin as she resisted the urge to clench them together, as much to stanch the mess as it would have been to provide some relief to her throbbing sex.

“Please, Jane, let me make it up to you next time.” Feliciano’s face twitched as he caught the assumption in his words. “I mean, if there is to be the next time, I swear to you I’ll not let you go unsated. I’ll—”

The fact that her pleasure was still on his mind sent a pang through her chest.

“Truly, don’t dwell on it, Feliciano. I’ll let you return the favor in the future,” she promised. 

His face still looked unsettled. They only had moments before the footman opened the door for them. An idea cropped up in Jane’s head and for a moment, she studied Feliciano, held his image in her mind, and considered the notion of enacting the ever-so-appealing idea she’d just had. 

The door opened but Jane was already leaning forward, her hand reaching to hold Feliciano’s face still so she could press a sweet kiss to his cheek.

“Thank you for seeing me home and for the strawberries. Please, thank Mrs. Edelstein for me as well.”

Feliciano blinked at her, looking like he’d been knocked over the head again. As her touch left him, one of his hands came up to touch where she’d lain her kiss.

“Of course I will.”

As she moved to leave the carriage, he reached out to hold her, as if suddenly realizing he had wanted to get out and help her down from the coach. 

Jane’s hand had already found that of the footman’s though as Feliciano's found her elbow.

“Please, don't exert yourself. I’m quite taken care of now.”

His eyes widened as he seemed to remember himself.

“Yes, of course.”

He gave his head a little shake like he was trying to rid himself of a few unpleasant thoughts. His hand waited a moment longer before relinquishing her to the Edelstein’s coachman. 

He caught her other hand once more and pressed it to his lips in a chaste kiss – a token of thanks in exchange for the reassurance and pleasure she’d paid him.

Feliciano left one hand on the door, keeping it open, his eyes fixed on her as she walked up the way leading to the front doors of Yeatlor.

“Be well!” he called after her. 

Jane turned around to give him a little wave of her fingers before going inside. 

Feliciano stayed until the door shut firmly behind her.

-

Both Charlotte and Francis found her in the foyer of Yeatlor once again.

Jane tried her best to act nonchalant as she untied her cloak and handed it to the maid, who was waiting dutifully for her by the base of the stairs.

Jane felt a tautness in her movements – like her body was holding a part of her for ransom until she could sate her rampant desires. The image of Feliciano with a sizeable bulge in his trousers crossed her mind; from the depths shrouded by her skirts, she felt her thighs tense.

She could also feel Francis’ eyes on her. His eye for detail was nearly infamous, complementing his eye for style. She knew he was catching the sheen of sweat at her flushed skin – and of course, that cursed hem she’d torn.

All Jane could do now was hope he didn’t fit the dirty, little pieces together.

She was surprised by how a similar sort of agitation carried him.

Francis crossed his arms over his chest.

“Where were you? What were you doing?”

Jane wondered at the sudden interrogation; he’d made it clear since her first week at Yeatlor that she wasn’t under his authority. 

She had never asked to go anywhere without him before and he’d never questioned her. She couldn’t help but wonder at what had changed.

“Church,” she said, her eyes still bright. “I was at church.”

She turned to the stairs, trying to brush past Francis to go to her room where she had…matters to attend to. Francis’ grip caught her uncharacteristically hard around the elbow though and jerked her to a stop. The heat of his skin seared her. She whipped around to face him, her eyes wide. Jane tried to tug herself loose, her eyes dropping to where he held her -- more surprised than scared. At least for now.

Francis was unflinchingly calm like he’d steeled himself to his own brutishness beforehand. His blue eyes seemed grayer today, like storm clouds gathering over rough waters.

“Since when do you pray? I was worried about you, you know.”

Jane shrugged.

“I was trying something new.”

“ _Now_? You absolutely needed to do that now?”

The exasperation in his voice annoyed her. It was the same tone Mr. Beilschmidt took up when talking to many of the ‘skirts’ he’d fraternized with in the valley. The very same ones he called perfectly tolerable in their simpleness – so long as they were easy on the eyes.

Jane’s mouth pinched into a firm line, a tight twitch leaping out at her jaw.

“I understand you might be on edge after the news Katyusha delivered to us yesterday but—"

“ _’On edge?_ ’” Francis’ voice grew heavy. “It wasn’t just that bodies were found, Jane.” He procured a folded newspaper from his frock and held it out with the hand that wasn’t holding her hard. “A _mass grave_ was found.” 

Jane tried again to shrug him off but his grasp was unwavering.

“Jane,” Francis said, his voice pleading. “ _ma chère,_ please. Things here…have changed _.”_

She didn’t know what to say to that. She also suspected he didn’t quite just mean the circumstances surrounding the valley.

“I suppose they have.”

Jane’s response seemed to validate some redeeming, awful truth to Francis. 

He searched her face, stricken, for just a moment.

“See, Jane, I’ve been beside myself, wracking my brain to try and make things right.” He released her to run a hand through his hair, which she just noticed, was free of its usual dark ribbon. “But I’m still empty-handed. Empty-handed and empty-headed. Won’t you please just tell me what I am to do?”

For the first time in a while, the urge to run from him was gone, as was the need to sweep all her strange, night thoughts under the rug. She didn’t have an answer for Francis. Not exactly – though she perhaps had a means of making him a little less empty and a little more whole.

“I saw.”

Francis’ eyes were unsteady. Unable to see what she meant and yet so certain that the realization, whenever it hit him, would do so with all the grace and delicacy of a pile of bricks.

“When the Kohler’s came to call on us, I saw. You and Mrs. Kohler.”

Even in the dim light, Jane could see how he paled. It willed her with ferocious satisfaction.

“Ah. I see.” 

He took a deep breath that seemed to leave him more exhausted than when he started. “I can explain. I…know I was wrong. That they’re married. You must believe me – though perhaps you can’t – but please, try to understand that I didn’t want to hurt Mathias. I—” Francis swallowed, and when he spoke again, his voice was smaller than Jane had ever heard it before. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

Jane waited quietly and watched him as shadows of emotion passed over his face, each one darker and more empty than the next. Jane thought it looked almost like they were peeling layers of the Francis she knew away to reveal a more visceral, less polished version. Truthfully, anything less than polished was near-unrecognizable to her. It was an autopsy by candlelight.

“She came to my door when I thought everyone had gone to bed. It was the first time – I swear it, I don’t even know how she knew where I slept.”

“The first time?” Jane interjected, a little sharply. “I was watching the pair of you all night. She was no pining maiden!”

“It was the first time we’d dishonored her _marriage_.”

Francis’ brow furrowed, only sharpening the edge in his voice. Jane made a mental note of his defensiveness. Of how easy it would’ve been for him to embellish his half-truth into an even more pathetic, fuller truth.

“Laying with her was not when you started to dishonor her marriage.”

“You didn’t see her when she got to me – she was distraught!”

“And you were quite the opportunistic shoulder to cry on, I’d say!”

The foyer around them echoed. Both of them were surprised to hear that they were yelling now and had only realized this from the rippling echoes of their vitreous statements bounced back to them from Yeatlor’s magnificent walls.

Both of them shrank into themselves, ashamed and all too cognizant of how they were speaking to one another.

“You can think me what you’d like Jane – lacking in honor, in self-control, or maybe just...lacking but tell me this, Jane. How much damage could I possibly do to a marriage already empty of love?”

Jane, who knew nothing on the subject short of the most idyllic marriage, which was undoubtedly bound to the most idyllic romance in her head, stayed quiet.

“It wasn’t 'play' for me,” said Francis and when he caught the sharp cock of her brow, he hastened to correct himself. “It wasn’t _just_ 'play' for me.”

His shoulders looked sunken, like the short bout of fighting with her had drained him of his vitality. He found the chair by the little side table a few feet away, out of the light now. Jane could barely make out the shape of Francis as he ran another hand through his hair and when that did nothing to silence his wounded conscience, he let it linger at his face to shield him from whatever she might say next in response.


	22. Chapter 22

“I was weak.” 

Francis’ voice rang out, frayed, into the dark hall. 

“At the time, I truly thought I could not say ‘no’ to her, though perhaps,” he heaved a heavy sigh. “I should have tried harder.”

Jane had never seen him so defeated. An empty pang shot through her chest.

“Jane, I’m…truly sorry you saw that. I never wanted you to see me that way. To take me for a scoundrel.”

When his voice trailed off again, it did not pick back up. Francis sat, slouched in the chair, bent into himself like the decaying ruin of a building. It made Jane profoundly sad, alongside, her accusing anger.

After a few moments though, she could take no more of this sad, limp quiet. 

She went to him, at first holding her hand out in offering, though upon seeing that he took no notice, she took up a more pressing stance.

She reached her fingers out to skim along his forearm – the one resting at his knee so that he could clamp his hand tightly across his face.

At her touch, Francis withdrew to look up at her, brow raised, surprised, though not yet quite hopeful. It was better this way. If he’d assumed himself to be forgiven, Jane probably would’ve withdrawn the olive branch entirely.

Francis watched her curiously as she tugged him up to his feet. The candle flickered at her back. She suddenly wished she’d thought to blow it out before attending to Francis.

He lingered before her, somewhat unsteadily, if only to be ready to surrender to whatever her intentions might be. His own had only led him afoul with her, after all.

They passed a moment watching each other in the near-dark, two uncertain souls with very little left to lay bare. And yet, what remained sacred seemed to become a fixation for the both to drag out.

Jane grabbed his hand again and gave it a squeeze. There was a softness to him, past the callouses at his palm and the insides of his fingers from riding and fencing. 

She squeezed again as if to make sure she wasn’t mistaken the first time. 

Francis held deathly still.

Jane surprised them both by pulling him in to embrace him. She released his hand in favor of wrapping her arms around his neck, a feat that required her to rock up onto the balls of her feet. 

Francis stiffened for a moment, startled at the sudden display of affection before he settled in her arms. 

Their bodies came together like magnets. Once close, they stuck together like it was their lone instinct. Jane could feel tightness where Francis pressed against her, along with an enthralling hardness. Holding him close was different than holding Feliciano and _very_ different from holding Katyusha.

She wondered idly if he noticed the softness of her as she did the opposite of him. Could he feel her breasts pillowed against him? His hands were resting tentatively at her supple waist; did he hold her that tightly out of courtesy, or that loosely out of respect?

Between her legs, Jane was still wet from her encounter with Feliciano in the carriage and unsated at that. Her body seemed to drink in Francis’ frame in her hands and suddenly, in its rampant want, her imagination spun ferocious dreams for her.

She found herself wondering what his kisses might taste like, where that lovely blonde hair of his began and ended. She wondered if his hands, which revered her so tenderly, could flex hard against her skin as Feliciano’s had, his intent smothered by his desire.

Neither of them let go. 

In fact, Francis’ hold on her seemed to do the opposite. His arms grew heavier around her until she felt the press of his arms at the bend of her back as intensely as she felt the hardness of his body pushed against hers. His face dropped to burrow into the crook of her neck.

At the feeling of his lips and nose against her sensitive skin, Jane gasped. Her own fingers flexed around him. 

Then, as if the sound she’d let out had made Francis aware of something quite urgent, his head lifted and he was driving his mouth against hers. Jane might have gasped again but whether or not the sound made it out, neither knew – Francis would’ve swallowed it regardless.

Her first instinct was to jerk her head away from the kiss – it was she and Francis after all. She had dropped into his life, making no more sense than if she’d fallen from the sky. 

She had known him all of five months.

Then again, she’d known Katyusha and Feliciano for a much shorter time, and it was, after all…she and _Francis_.

Jane’s lips let his coax movement out of them and her eyes fell shut as she kissed him with renewed fervor. At the back of her head, she thought of the day she’d been fitted for a new gown when she and Francis had spoken of the rumors surrounding her residency at Yeatlor. 

Her annoyance was quickly pinched out. She supposed she couldn’t be so angry at something that had become somewhat true. One of his hands came up to thread into her hair, his palm cupping her cheek with a gentleness that made her chest ache. Silky strands of blonde hair tickled her hands from how she held him. 

Jane stroked at his hair experimentally. 

God, it was soft. She felt a chuckle buzz against her mouth and then the heat at her face was renewed.

Her lips parted; she needed to breathe but didn’t dare try and tear herself away from him again. Francis was still holding her tight as if he couldn’t bear to part with her, air be damned. Francis’s tongue darted out to lash against her bottom lip, the wetness of which paralleled the wetness between her legs.

“ _Oh_!-“

Francis swallowed this sound too, the hand in her hair easing away to stroke softly along her cheek.

When their kiss broke, she remained tethered to him by the anchoring press of his forehead against hers.

For a few moments, the air was only filled with the furtive sounds of them trying to catch their breath. Finally, she was the first one to speak again.

“Francis, is this…what are we—"

“Oh, Jane,” Francis’ voice was husky. “If you were anyone else, I’d have taken you already.”

He said this as if it cleared everything up but she was even more confused than before.

“Who am I that you can’t?”

His answer couldn’t come fast enough, nor could his body. Her arousal was still pounding inside of her so intensely, she thought he might feel it.

Francis hesitated.

“Just pretend I’m someone else,” she offered.

His brow lifted for a moment before his face relaxed and creased in a look so tender, it almost undercut how she burned for him.

He stroked her cheek again.

“Jane…”

“Please? Can’t you just pretend for me?”

She was still as wet as she was when she was with Feliciano – who she begrudged nothing – but as she thought about how much of his spend comprised of this fierce wetness, her insistent need to sate her desire only worsened. 

There was no way she could wait until the next time she and Feliciano managed to find themselves alone.

Never mind the fact that she and Francis had been arguing just sometime before, she needed release and her handsome benefactor seemed as good a place as any to get it.

“No,” he said softly. “I can’t.”

As swiftly and surprisingly as his touch had come, it was gone and Jane was left alone, with only the brushing flicker of candlelight to warm her skin.

-

In Francis’ room, it was completely dark. 

There was no fire in the fireplace and he’d left Mihail with instruction to not light his candles. He was to go promptly to bed, where the hope was that the untethered quality of the dream world could unhinge another day’s thoughts of Jane, as well as the dastardly urge that had surfaced in him today to act on them.

At recalling the earlier events, a hellish fire broke at his skin. Francis twisted, tangling further into his bedsheets. His chemise pulled across his form, reminding him of bonds. Good, keep him tied here, where he could do no more damage with those hands of his.

God, he’d gotten so close. The moment she’d touched him, any resolve he had, had crumbled. Lightning struck in his veins and then -- how she’d held him!

He shut his eyes, feeling his brow crumple with tension. He’d felt her, so warm and soft and whole in his arms. 

The slip of her gown was nothing to that of her skin as he’d caught her face in his hands, or better yet, her mouth with his own.

Ah, yes, there was that.

Vicious heat seared him and Francis turned again, throwing an arm over his face.

What had he been thinking? 

He hadn’t been, really. Or rather, he couldn’t. Not with her scent swirling around him and the earthy musk of outside and something else he couldn’t quite place, lingering on her.

Her face had been with the fresh glow of excitement, eyes bright, like spring had bedded her before sending her to his arms, to his home, where she lay now.

Francis tried to empty his mind. 

He pictured nothing but the static dark of his room. He tried not to think of himself thinking of this. He hoped he would totter easily into soft, suffocating darkness. Oh, to slip into a dreamless sleep tonight.

Such a feat seemed impossible though. Through the darkness in his mind, all he needed was to imagine wood underfoot or at his fingertips. All the better to walk on or push away. 

From here, he could catch light – not much, just the smallest particle, like catching the pappus from a dandelion in his hands. 

This could not stay small for long. Once in his fingers, it grew, expanding, shedding light. Soon, he saw that the wood underfoot was the floor. The wood at his fingers was a door he had opened. 

Now the glowing ember had expanded into a bubble – he was looking out into a room from its corner. In the center was a bed, illuminated and in that bed was Jane. 

She was clothed. Even his colorful imagination didn’t dare encroach on what he’d spent his waking hours so stringently denying himself. She was just in her chemise though – it was a Jane he still hadn’t experienced in the flesh.

In this room, he couldn’t see her fully although with the innate omniscience dreams sometimes granted one, he knew she was awake. Beneath the heavy layers of the blankets, he could see a small, rapid movement, like a rabbit’s heartbeat. His blood went hot even if he could not see what was making it. 

He wanted to pounce and catch it.

Again there was that omniscience, although this time, he didn’t dare to think aloud to himself. He _knew_ what the movement was.

Like earlier, he could not stop the torrent of images that flashed in his mind, nor the phantom sensations his skin manifested for him to ponder. A slip of skin here, the discovery of a beauty mark that was not his to discover but that _was_ still his secret to keep.

Her lips, parted and ripe, a flower in full bloom, ready for him.

His heartbeat grew more rapid – in real life, although all he was technically doing was laying in bed.

Besides this though, there was no part of him left in the real world. 

He had stepped almost entirely into a realm almost more hot-blooded and fleshed out than the one from whence he came – this was the realm of fantasy.

Usually, when he stepped in here, he stayed until dawn trickled milky trails of yellow and cream into the paling, robin’s egg sky, but today he was jolted back to wakefulness and it was a sound that did so.

He jackknifed to a sitting position, heart pounding in his chest, not immediately recognizing it with his rational mind.

Then it came again, wispy and soft, like a tendril of smoke from a pipe – and it came from the small, brass vent by the foot of his bed.

“ _Oh_!- _Mm_!“ 

He felt himself harden with abruption that was near violent.

He knew this sound very well. He’d heard it the night prior and in retrospect, this was probably why he’d been so poorly disciplined with Jane that evening.

He had known that the vent led to her room, had known for months, from the occasional tirade or gentle humming that seeped into his room. He had never felt incriminated by this knowledge until tonight though. Without another voice coming from the vent, Francis was unable to ignore it or convince himself that it was simply none of his business.

When it was just them and the dark, it felt like she was making those sounds just for him.

Francis turned over again, this time planting his face into the pillow.

Go to sleep. 

The sound seemed to swell.

Go to sleep, God damn it!

He pinched his eyes shut. The vent moaned on.

“ _Oh_ , that’s-“

Francis flung the blankets away before he could hear anymore and staggered out of bed.

-

When he arrived at her bedroom, he didn’t bother knocking – he’d already transgressed on her privacy even if she didn’t know it.

Jane lurched into a sitting position as Francis burst into her room, the door bumping back against the wall. He caught the tail end of her hastily yanking the end of her chemise down over herself. She wasn’t buried in blankets as she had been in his dream.

Francis hadn’t been expecting to see her so bare – she wasn’t naked but with how thin her chemise was, it wasn’t that far of a cry from nudity.

He could clearly see the dark peaks of her breasts through the thin fabric, along with the warmth of her skin swimming just beneath.

For a moment, in her startled state, the urge to cover herself seemed to take over her, and Francis, still unable to tear his eyes from her body, noticed as her arms crossed, how her breasts seemed to jostle and shift beneath the fabric. His erection throbbed.

She was watching him expectantly; wondering what he needed from her no doubt. The words were in his mouth, at the tip of his tongue, jammed between his teeth – they would not come out.

“Jane, I—”

His voice died in his throat.

“Francis, please.”

He froze, suddenly feeling very young. He couldn’t tell if it was a command or request. He obeyed regardless. He thought of her request from earlier – _Can’t you pretend just for me?_

Silence fell between them and she blinked at him, expectant once more. 

Francis found his voice again. He was powerless to do anything other than what she wanted now that he was seeing her in the flesh. Now that he _knew_.

“Then, shall we pretend?”

His voice was hoarse.

“You’re the only one who feels the need to.”

She sounded amused – not disgusted. Not afraid. 

“Fair enough.”

Nothing felt fair to him right then; not the hold she had over him nor his status over her. 

“I could pretend too if you’d prefer though,” Jane offered. “Who am I that I might put your nerves at ease?”

How novel; _she_ was trying to put _him_ at ease. Francis had not felt the novice lover in years. His stomach flipped in anticipation.

He gave a soft laugh if only to do something familiar.

“I can’t tell you that _and_ be at ease. At least let me keep something for myself.”

Because although she did not know it, everything else was for her.

Francis went to her bedside. It was like drawing closer to a fire; heat seemed to roll off her skin in waves. It took everything in him not to throw himself into burning alive.

He hesitated. Both of them seemed to commit to whatever was about to happen next but now that they were here, neither seemed to know how to begin. It was like planning to jump to his death; sure, conceptualizing it as a hypothetical was easy enough but to actually be on the precipice, to peer down at the streets below like veins clustering to meet at the heart of where he’d built his life. To take in the dizzying patterns of the people below, equal parts frantic and industrious, like ants.

Francis swallowed, trying to do away with the lump in his throat.

He remembered earlier that day, how he’d labored over such similar moments in her proximity. The kiss itself had come fast. Easy. 

Like breathing. 

He reached a hand up to her face again. God, was she soft.

This time, Jane’s hand covered his, holding him to her. His heart stuttered in his chest. Even the way she touched him was soft. A question asked with the most tender courtesy, though both already knew the answer.

Then he bowed his head forward and just like their first kiss, they fell into this one, fast.

The split second of her breath fanning against his mouth was a memory he’d cherish forever. He locked it tight in his head for later use and then thought of positively nothing, his head completely empty, as his lips moved against hers, tasting roses, breathing her sweet perfume.

She bowed against him, her face tilted up to kiss him, her hands at his shoulders to anchor herself. They kissed like this for only a few moments, desperate, heated, open-mouthed kisses that were meant to travel, though neither were brave enough to yet breach the safety of their mouths.

Jane was certainly wanting enough though.

The weight of her grasp intensified suddenly, throwing him off balance, and then Francis was falling forward into her with a sharp gasp.

If his weight startled her, Jane didn’t show it. She accepted his body readily on top of hers, holding him tighter. 

At once, Francis was aware of the cushion of her breasts against his chest. His cock throbbed at the thought and Francis groaned.

His hands, in an attempt to catch himself, were pinched into the mattress, though they quickly relinquished this stance to grasp at where he thought her hips were. Through the ocean of fabric, he could make out the curve of her hips and thighs. 

Once he got a sense of this curvature, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from tracing it. His grip began a stroking touch as he mapped out her thighs, skimming down to feel the soft, plush skin, before he stroked back up, letting the fabric of her chemise ride enticingly up.

She was addicting; at the slightest feel of her, Francis suddenly found himself fraught with the need to feel _all_ of her. The fabric threatened to swallow his touches up, and soon, he was feeling more fabric than woman.

Annoyance spiked in Francis and he gave a sharp, downward yank. The kiss broke with Jane’s surprise and then they were staring wide-eyed at each other, one shoulder bared as her chemise veered sharply downward, dangerously close to revealing a breast.

Their eyes met. Francis tasted steel. 


	23. Chapter 23

Peering up at Francis, she felt like every nerve ending was exposed as if just by being in the same room with him, she could feel him as intensely as if he were already inside of her. 

Her heart was pounding, she could hardly believe it.

Just one night prior, she and Katyusha had been doing the same thing. 

In a single day, she’d gone from being a virgin to having amassed three lovers. The crippling guilt she’d battled with earlier had broken from its gauzy cocoon to glean brilliant pride.

She thought of what Feliciano had told her in the carriage; _You mustn’t feel guilty about feeling pleasure._

There was new credibility she wanted to lend him but it would have to wait – Francis had frozen over her now that they were toeing the line of no return. She was dangerously close to being naked underneath him and as far as she was concerned, her clothes couldn’t come off quick enough.

She noticed how his eyes swept around her generous neckline, watching how the thin fabric clung to her body. He didn’t dare make the final move to pull it off of her entirely though. 

Jane didn’t want to do it herself either.

She grabbed his hand, which had stilled by her side, and guided it up to her breast. She closed her hand around his, showing him how to palm her through her chemise, coaxing his fingers to close around her breast in gentle, fondling touches.

Francis let out a steady stream of air.

“Ah, it’s getting harder to hold back—”

“Then don’t.”

Their eyes locked. His hand was soft and warm, and she could feel how the hardened peak of her breast rasped against his palm.

Francis moved slowly then, his hand leaving her so that both could find the hem of her chemise. He paused as if waiting for her to tell him to stop or to call the whole thing off. 

Jane waited expectantly, only getting wetter by the minute.

The fabric started to climb her body as he pulled it away, first riding high at her thighs before she felt it slide over her hips, baring the tuft of wiry curls between her legs. Jane held still, only lifting herself occasionally to help Francis in undressing her. 

She fought the urge to cover herself valiantly. Tonight, she was determined to be as equal of a lover in skill as she could be – at the very least, she’d pretend to have his poise in the bedroom.

The fabric lifted from her breasts and Jane’s eyes fell shut as Francis swept it over her head. Then she was completely naked.

She waited as Francis’ eyes slipped over her, studying her form. The desire to wrap her arms around herself grew but she remained steadfast.

“ _Magnifique_ ,” the word rolled off his tongue. 

He’d left her chemise to pool at the mattress beside her, washing away with the white of her sheets. He reached for her, stroking a hand by her breasts, tracing as her figure sloped inward to her waist and then outward again with the generous curve of her hip. 

Jane was hyperaware of the rising and falling motion of her chest. Francis’ eyes went back to her breasts and for a moment, she thought the weight of his gaze might keep her from breathing entirely.

“You have no idea how much I want you right now.”

His voice shook a little, giving her the faintest of ideas.

He cupped her breasts fully, his thumbs stroking over her nipples, which were hard, almost puffy looking, begging to be touched. When he did, she felt pleasure fleck down her spine to pool with the wetness gathering between her legs. A light noise of contentment sounded in her throat.

“ _Très jolie_.” A small smile formed at his lips and his eyelids fell at half-mast. “I’m certain now, that being here with you, I could ask for nothing more.”

His words stirred up any uncertainty with her own feelings in a way his touch never would have been able to. Jane was getting quite used to the physicality – whenever she thought about her first time, she’d always fretted about how gentle her partner might be with her body but as it turned out, it was the tenderness they laid to her heart that she struggled with.

Jane didn’t know what to say; there was a vulnerability now that extended past her mere nakedness. Now she felt like she was aching and raw in front of him like her heart was autopsied and the most secret, inner workings were left to be dissected and studied.

She moved, reaching a hand up to grab the front of Francis’ own sleepwear, before pulling him down on top of her again. It was easier this way, with him so close his facial features blended together into an impersonal blur she could easily shut her eyes too.

She pulled him down, tilting her face up to catch his lips with hers. Her hands were curled around herself, against his chest, where she figured he wouldn’t even notice.

On the contrary, Francis kissed her softly for a few moments before he broke it.

“We’ve made it this far, _ma chère._ Don’t shy away from me now,” he murmured.

The little plea in his voice was more than enough to convince her that she couldn’t possibly. She felt like she hadn’t been properly dry since before her encounter with Feliciano.

“Mm, I don’t think I could. I’m still wet from earlier.”

At this, Francis kissed her nose before leaning back, an eyebrow raised.

“Earlier?”

He looked so pleased that for a moment, Jane almost considered not divulging where she’d been. She couldn’t help it though; Feliciano had gotten to know whose bed she’d come from, she couldn’t let Francis continue on without knowing either.

“I was with Feliciano earlier. We didn’t have time to finish.”

The planes of Francis’ face tightened, but he knew better than to out the true magnitude of his emotions – especially in front of a lover, or worse yet, Jane, who’d developed a striking affinity for heightening both those peaks and those valleys.

Jane could read him easily. She gave him a few moments to collect his thoughts.

He seemed to be at war with himself; he clearly was displeased with the prospects of her having been with some other man though Jane knew Francis would’ve recognized the rational unfairness in expecting her to be virginal (or something similar) just for him.

“He…lay with you?”

“We lay together,” Jane corrected.

She blinked at him and feeling her gaze still on him, Francis kept his face cool, impassive.

“That was…irresponsible of him.”

She hadn’t been expecting that. Jane sat up a little, forcing Francis to sit back on his heels.

“And you,” she crossed her arms. “You were about to do the same thing, yes? Or have I grossly misinterpreted what you meant when you—”

“I, well—” Francis paused, and then something foggy and troubled passed over his face. “You’re right. It would be irresponsible. What of your husband?”

“I don’t have one. And it’s not like husbands have ever stopped you before.”

Francis shot Jane a sharp look, only to see that she’d beaten him to it.

“But what of your _future_ husband?”

Jane laughed and the sound startled Francis. Jane in turn was surprised when he didn’t also laugh.

“What, you’re serious? You’re defending my non-existent, hypothetical husband? I might not ever marry.”

Francis raised a brow.

“Of course, you’ll marry.”

“I might not!”

“You will – that’s what young ladies do. What if he found out? What if you became-“ Francis let his voice break off as if he couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence. 

“Feliciano’s dishonored you. Who would have you now?”

The mood in the room had turned so abruptly, it was making Jane dizzy. 

Still, she wasn’t so turned around that she couldn’t see that she should be hurt by what Francis said. Jane scrambled up onto her knees, grabbing the blankets and yanking them up to cover herself.

“You’re right,” she said sardonically. “Who could ever want me now?”

Jane got out of the bed, taking her meager blanket-covering with her. 

“Jane, wait, I just—”

“You’ve been perfectly clear.”

Jane turned to leave, only to be caught with how Francis was still sitting on some of the blankets. She gave them a sharp tug and Francis lifted himself, not wanting her to go but not wanting her to stay because she _couldn’t_ leave.

Jane was fuming. She pinched the blankets shut around her to cover herself better before striding clumsily to the door. She didn’t care that it was her room – she just needed to be away from him.

She reached her door and flung it open. She turned one last time to face Francis.

“Jane, please—”

“You’ve made your point. You came here – for what? My virginity? That’s gone, so I’m sorry, but what you’ve come looking for, you won’t find here.”

“That wasn’t what I—“

“Forget it, you should go.” Francis flinched and Jane, though not proud of it, relished this. “And for the record, Feliciano wasn't the first person to lay with me.”

“Jane, I _know_.”

Jane wasn't listening, her brow was pulled into an angry furrow, her eyes fierce on him.

“And furthermore, I—wait. What do you mean you know?”

Francis got up from the bed and went to her. Jane watched him, tugging the blankets tighter around her now that the draft from the hallway was let in.

“I mean, I already knew you…weren't a virgin when I came to your bedroom tonight.”

“Then what—”

“I didn’t mean to judge you for…what you do in your spare time is your business, of course. All I meant was that it occurred to me that it would be irresponsible to dishonor you by laying with you if we were not wed.”

Francis’s face had softened – she knew he was just trying to make right what had gone so amazingly wrong in such little time. He reached up to stroke her face and it took everything in her to steel herself to the tender gesture.

“Then, am I to take it that you’re asking for my hand?”

Francis opened his mouth to answer and then froze, his eyes falling to someone – or something – just over Jane’s shoulder. When she turned, she saw Charlotte, stone-faced, making her way down the hallway towards her own room, candle in one hand, cup in the other.

She didn’t bother looking at what Jane was wearing (or rather, _not_ wearing) nor at Francis, in Jane's room at such an hour. 

“Good night, Mr. Bonnefoy. Miss Doe.”

She seemed to float past them with the stillness of a phantom. Francis and Jane watched her pass as if they’d seen a ghost of their own.

“Charlotte.”

“Good night, Charlotte.”

Jane’s face heated in her embarrassment. Francis cleared his throat, his eyes narrowing into what must’ve passed for a poker face to him, but that gave away his own embarrassment rather easily.

He reached past Jane to shut her door again. They heard it latch and then Francis’ hand lingered at the wood. 

Instead of drawing away, he drew nearer.

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m not proposing, but I _am_ the greater gentleman for taking your future into consideration.”

Jane raised her eyebrows, suddenly finding all of this rather ridiculous.

Francis could sense how unimpressed she was in how she looked at him.

“Remember that,” he insisted.

“Alright.”

“That’s a good trait for a husband to have. You’d do well to look for one who’d do the same.”

“Noted.”

Jane sighed and leaned against the door, her fingers still balling the trappings from her bed up at her chest. Francis leaned beside her, their cozy familiarity restored, the conflict put to a fitful rest.

“What is it, _ma chère?”_ He reached to tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “You still look dissatisfied.”

Her face screwed into an expression of distaste as if she were deciding whether or not she should answer honestly – like the last time.

“Tell me,” he soothed.

Jane hesitated.

“It’s just—you won’t do anything with me then? I’m terribly… _feverish_.” 

At the last word, Jane ducked her head, her fingers picking at a stray thread sprouting from the duvet she clutched to her body.

Francis’ brow raised, his eyes wide, as a hand came up to his jaw, denoting his surprise.

“Ah! That’s right! You still haven’t come after all this time.”

The color at Jane’s face darkened. She appeared spectacularly interested in that loose thread.

“Fear not,” he said. “You’ll still feel pleasure tonight.”

She looked up at him, not understanding completely what he meant.

“But…you said…”

Francis chuckled, further restoring the room to its former good humor.

“Trust me -- I don’t need to lay with you to make you feel good.”

Jane looked at him curiously. 

She thought a bit of how it had been for Katyusha – was Francis saying that didn’t count? They _had_ been laying down, doing ‘indecent’ things and yet, Francis had a point somewhere in his strange, convoluted logic; Katyusha couldn’t put a baby in Jane, nor could she in Katyusha.

“Go back to the bed, Jane, lay down and get comfortable.”

Jane obeyed, bringing the covers with her. On the bed, she lay down, her eyes watching the kaleidoscope patterns of the luxurious canopy over them. Her heart stuttered in her chest when she felt the bed divot and knew Francis had come.

“Are you ready?”

He sounded excited. Jane was suddenly a little nervous. Something soft stroked at her thigh but the not-seeing made the sensation all the more intense, so she decided against looking to see what it was, lest it lessen what Francis was about to do for her.

“I am.”

There were a few moments of quiet and then she felt something stroke along her sex. A wet sound came from between her legs and Jane reached up to cover her face with her hands.

“You weren’t exaggerating, _ma chère,_ you’re dripping.”

The stroking welcomed even more wetness and Jane squirmed as Francis touched her wet, swollen sex with his practiced touches. She felt something press against her entrance and she gasped.

“Shh, relax.”

His voice was softer than she’d ever heard it. In noticing this, her body relaxed all on its own, as if wanting to match its exquisite timbre.

He probed her slick entrance with a finger, testing it. It slipped in almost effortlessly and Jane moaned softly to let him know she liked it.

“Mm, I’ve imagined this so many times.”

His thumb found her clit as he pumped his finger in and out slowly, not wanting to overwhelm her at first. She fit snuggly around him and he welcomed her musky scent as he drew more wetness out of her.

“I’ve tried to imagine what you might look like naked, what you might look like here.”

He wriggled his finger inside of her to demonstrate and she gasped, her hands reaching unwittingly to clutch at the sheets. Francis chuckled again and resumed his slow, even thrusts.

“Even my imagination couldn’t do you justice.”

He added another finger on the outdraw, and though it was a snugger fit, he still went in without any problems. 

Now, the friction was more intense; he could feel Jane’s walls tighten around him.

“You’re so greedy for me,” he murmured, thumb brushing over her clit again. 

Jane felt her face heat again.

“I don’t—”

“I meant it as a compliment. It’s lovely.”

The drag of him inside of her was viciously sweet; she felt like it was sending electricity through her body. 

She twisted the sheets tighter in her hands and felt herself arch off of the mattress.

“Mm—then, what about now?” 

She waited a beat, listening to the gentle slap of the base of his hand against her cunt. “What do you wonder about now that you know the—” she gasped, feeling herself clench around him “—answers to the other things?”

Francis tilted his wrist slightly, changing the angle with which he was entering her. Like this, he didn’t need to use his thumb anymore; his knuckles brushed her sensitive bundle of nerves every time he pumped into her. 

Jane jolted at his fingertips, a soft mewl coming from her lips. 

“Oh!- That’s—”

“Do you feel good?”

She could hear the smile in his voice.

“Wonderful. I feel wonderful,” said Jane softly.

With this new angle, Francis’ fingers increased in pace, making more shallow, rabbity thrusts. What he sacrificed in depth though he seemed to compensate with sensation. It was different this way; each slip of his fingers inside of her seemed to make her entire body twitch into one large contraction. Her thighs trembled slightly and Jane felt it a little difficult to focus.

“Now,” he started. “I’ll think about what it’s like to be inside of you.”

Jane squeezed around him on purpose, as if trying to keep him there. 

“I’ll wonder what goes through your head when you look at me and as the valley hosts more balls and you undoubtedly accumulate a large harem of suitors, I’ll start to wonder if you’ve met a better man than me.”

Jane felt her heart throb. 

It made her a little sad but she wasn’t surprised. Francis had said it himself; he would not propose and she had to marry. 

Admittedly, she hadn’t stopped to consider what living with him would be like now that they’d crossed this physical threshold. Would their quiet breakfasts be quiet because it was cozy and they were familiar enough with one another that they didn’t need to waste time or energy on idle pleasantries? Or did translating the chaos in their hearts into a physical language mean they forfeited their right to be effective in speaking to one another again?

Francis’ fingers pumped faster into her, hitting the same spot with sensuous fury. Jane started to squirm – it was all starting to feel like too much. Her stomach swooped and she felt her blood flush hot and cold inside of her.

She felt a pressure at the pit of her stomach – or perhaps even deeper. It was a shivery sort of tension, heightened occasionally with where his fingers hit. Jane thought very faintly that she might have to relieve herself and immediately was ashamed at such a strange thought while this handsome man had his fingers inside of her.

“Francis, I—”

He seemed unsurprised at her reaction, even as the shaking in her thighs worsened.

“You’re almost there. Let go for me, Jane.”

“Wait – no, Francis, I—” 

Her hips twitched and she found herself bucking up as if trying to feel him deeper.

“It’s okay,” he promised.

His eyes went from her sex to watch the rest of her body, trusting his fingers to carry her to her release. Her hair was mussed, splayed against the mattress like a fuzzy halo. 

Her skin glimmered with the faint sheen of her sweat. Jane’s breasts felt heavy and sensitive; she suddenly wished Francis would’ve taken the time to kiss her more, to find her sensitive nipples with his hot, wet mouth and suckle at them.

She felt like she was on the brink of losing something she was trying very hard to keep. 

Her grasp on the sheets was so tight, her fingers were almost numbed. Her cunt clenched around Francis’ fingers and then she groaned, her entire body tensing and pulling taut. Whatever she had been holding on to, seemed to slip by her and it sent her into a nonsensical, sudden panic.

“Wait!—” Her voice was pressed into a tight groan. “I’m—”

Francis' fingers were unrelenting and as Jane craned her neck to send a wide-eyed look to him, a spray of clear liquid, much lighter than the slick gathering at her inner thighs, wetted the sheets.

At once, every tense muscle in Jane seemed to relax. She suddenly felt a mixture of sleepy heaviness and warm fuzziness in her limbs. 

Still, she jackknifed to an upright position, mortified. She clamped her legs shut, her other arm reaching to wrap tightly around her chest.

Francis looked pleased and Jane found herself once again, dumbfounded.


	24. Chapter 24

“I…” Jane paused to let herself catch her breath, her skin burning and her lungs matching it as she fought to compose herself. “What _was_ that?”

Francis’ fingers left her and she twitched at the wet drag of him pulling out. She tried to ignore how achingly empty she was now, her walls still thrumming and sensitive. She clenched and felt more wetness slip out.

“You’ve finished before, haven’t you?”

Jane’s face heated.

“I have, but it wasn’t like _that_. It didn’t—There wasn’t…it didn’t _look_ quite like that.”

Francis chuckled and Jane felt small. She hadn’t been a virgin when the night started but she had become aware once more of just how little experience she had – and what little difference it made, even if society would’ve found her ‘ruined’ by now anyway.

“It doesn’t happen every time,” he explained. “You have to…reach a certain spot inside of you to do it and even then, I don’t think it works for everyone in the same way.”

“Why not?”

Francis was still smiling, his eyes shining in the low light as he shifted forward so that he was laying at her side. Now empty and coming down from the thrill of sex, she felt her skin chill and welcomed his body heat as it rolled off of him to collect at her.

“Because everyone’s body is different.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. Jane became aware then that one of his hands was at her thigh, stroking softly at the sensitive skin. “Pleasure isn’t the same for everyone, so it’s important to get to know your lover’s body.”

Jane looked unconvinced. She eyed him skeptically.

“But tonight was the first time we…” she made a vague gesture with her hand and trusted him to put two and two together.

“Mm, that’s true. I suppose that makes me an especially good lover, no?”

Jane nudged her elbow at his ribs and Francis laughed again. He was close enough that the sound shook her slightly too. His voice petered out and as it did, his hand left her thigh to cup her cheek once more, guiding her face to his. Francis captured her mouth in a sweet kiss.

Jane’s hands reached up to catch him back, tangling lightly in his soft hair, no longer afraid at relinquishing these little tells of how much she wanted him.

When the kiss broke, Francis was still smiling as he held her still so he could angle his head and press a kiss to the inside of one of her wrists.

“Then, with that, I’d say you’ve had enough excitement for one night. You should be off to bed now, hm?”

The thought of bedtime tonight would’ve excited her if Francis hadn’t looked to be getting up just then. She wanted to ask what about him? Didn't he need...tending to? The thought of having him where she'd had Feliciano hours ago, excited her. 

Jane watched, curious, as he felt around the mix of sheets, finding the light fabric of her forgotten chemise.

She suddenly felt like something was a little off.

Francis took the chemise in his hands and looped it over her head again. 

As Jane pushed her arms through the sleeves, Francis brought the rest of the garment down over her form, his hands smoothing over her, lingering at her breasts and hips again. It felt like how he'd undressed her but in reverse like it was undoing the intimacy they shared.

Almost at once, she wanted him with nearly the same vigor she had before he’d tended to her.

“Mm, you’re so beautiful. You’re glowing; it’s positively radiant.”

His words were as sweet as his kisses and if they hadn’t had the conversation they’d had earlier, she probably would’ve fallen for them. As it was though, she could tell when Francis was getting ready to make a run for it and the nagging thought that he would, in fact, be making a run for it was front and center in her mind now that she had been sated.

“And _you’re_ leaving, aren’t you?”

Her voice sounded accusing even to her, so she cocked an eyebrow to try and give herself a dryer, more teasing edge. Francis, as if knowing a segue into an argument was the easiest way to get him to stay now, pretended not to notice.

“It wouldn’t be decent for me to stay the night.”

“Sleeping in the same bed is less decent than you with your fingers inside of me?”

Francis leaned in to press a chaste kiss to her forehead and Jane felt even smaller than before.

“If I stayed the night, I don’t think we’d be getting much sleep at all.”

The thought had her blood burning and skin prickling all over again. 

She couldn’t conceal her surprise, nor her excitement at his words. Francis seemed to have already resigned himself to leaving though.

“So, with that said, _good night_ , Jane.” His voice had a note of finality that told her there was no use arguing.

“But—”

Francis was up and off the bed before she could think of something clever or alluring to say.

“We’ll talk tomorrow, hm?”

He didn’t wait for her to answer before he’d slipped out of her room and shut the door delicately behind him. It hit her with surprising weight -- that is, how staggeringly alone she was in that moment. 

Jane tugged the blankets closer around her but left the candles to burn themselves out. She was already cold and didn’t much feel like getting out of bed only to surround herself with more dark.

-

The next morning, Jane woke for breakfast, though she didn’t feel the least bit hungry. 

Charlotte came in with the same impassive non-judgment she always did and never questioned the various red marks blooming over Jane’s neck and shoulders. 

They dressed in their usual quiet, with nothing particularly out of place in their easy routine. As Charlotte sat Jane down in front of the vanity and ran a brush through her hair, Jane couldn’t help but steal glimpses at her reflection in the mirror. 

She thought her eyes looked bright today – perhaps too much so? Did she look eager? _Should_ she look eager? It was true that Francis had been adamant about leaving after the time they’d spent together but would he be put off if she wasn’t in high spirits at breakfast?

“Charlotte, did Mr. Bonnefoy appear to be with a particularly good temperament today?”

“Not that I can recall, Miss.”

“I see.”

Her face in the reflection dimmed in her disappointment. There was no risk of appearing too eager now. The brush paused at her hair.

“But Miss? If I might speak freely, you do look particularly nice today.”

Charlotte’s hands went to Jane’s shoulders to give them a comforting squeeze. 

Her eyes met the other woman’s through the mirror and they both let forth tentative smiles.

“Thank you, Charlotte.”

On the way to breakfast, Jane’s expectations of a Francis who felt as jittery and expectant from the last night’s events had sobered up remarkably so that by the time she’d reached the doors of the drawing room, she hardly felt any different from a typical morning. In fact, it felt like she’d shed his fingerprints as well as the petals blooming under skin. She felt completely anew.

Upon pushing through the doors, this feeling was at once clouded by confusion. 

Francis wasn’t there at all, moreover, Colonel Fernández _was_.

At the sound of the door, the Colonel rose from his spot at the table – right at its center, closest to the hearth.

“Ah! Miss Doe, good morning.”

He bowed and Jane had to remember herself before curtsying.

“Colonel Fernández, what a surprise. What brings you here this morning?”

“Forgive me, Jane. I didn’t mean to intrude – I came to call on Francis but he was gone on an early trip to town.”

Jane felt her stomach flip. Francis had left? For what? 

She couldn’t recall the last time he’d gone to town without her. He’d made no mention of this little trip the night prior. What could’ve possibly come up in the hours since he’d left her, that was urgent enough to pull him away on such short notice?

“I was told I could wait here for his return,” the Colonel continued. “But I don’t mind coming back later if you’d rather I not.”

Jane knew she must’ve looked off-put by the suddenness of all this. Still, the Colonel was a respected guest at Yeatlor, she could hardly refuse him, especially just because she was miffed Francis hadn’t told her before he’d left.

“Of course you can stay here. You’re a beloved guest.”

A wide smile spread at the Colonel’s lips, his teeth so white and the dimples playing at his cheeks so charmingly boyish, that Jane suddenly remembered how handsome Francis’ very good friend was.

“You have my gratitude, Jane. Not only do I get to await Francis’ return in comfort but I get to do so in the company of someone so lovely.”

The Colonel went to her, bowing once more for gallantry rather than etiquette, and took her hand to brush his lips against the back of it.

This was not typical, especially without Francis, or anyone else on the estate for that matter, to chaperone them. The ominous satisfaction of this made her feel funny on the inside like her entire body was aware and smiling at such circumstances.

“I share your fortune in good companionship,” Jane smiled, feeling more like herself. “You have my thanks as well.” 

-

The Colonel had been left with more information regarding Francis’ mysterious trip to town than Jane had been and so as the master of Yeatlor was to be gone for most of the day, the Colonel suggested – no, _insisted_ \-- Jane accompany him to a small concert that day, to pass the time.

It was on this little outing, trapped between the saddle and the hard plane of Antonio’s chest that Jane realized Mr. Silva wasn’t tagging along that day. 

How strange.

Stranger yet, was that this outing was being held at the Beilschmidt’s Chateau. 

However, if fate had felt inclined to repay Jane for the annoying coincidences that morning, then it did so in the musicians set up to play in Hyacinth’s elegant garden.

As soon as Jane caught those familiar auburn curls, her face lit up.

She leaned in closer to the Colonel, his arm in hers as they stood, nestled in the crowd.

“I had no idea it was Mr. Vargas performing today. How grand!”

Antonio nodded in agreement.

“ _Si_ , it’s him and his mentor, Mr. Edelstein. Though I haven’t heard Mr. Vargas play myself, he must certainly be good if he’s under Roderich’s tutelage.”

The Colonel was right – Feliciano _was_ good. He and Mr. Edelstein performed a stringed duet in which the separation between mentor and mentee seemed to dissolve entirely. Jane had never seen Feliciano so certain and as she watched his dexterous fingers against the strings, she was reminded of how carefully he’d handled her in the carriage the other day. The thought had renewed heat burning inside of her, rejuvenating any charms she’d thought spoiled by Francis’ sudden departure.

At the end of the little garden performance, the guests were ushered into a banquet area for refreshments and drink. Antonio left her side to go speak further with the older Mr. Beilschmidt – an interaction Jane could decidedly do without for the day – leaving her to mix with strangers. 

She busied herself with inspecting some of the little cakes at the table and hoped no one would call after her. She was tired – she hadn’t gotten much sleep the night before, after all. 

For a few glorious minutes, she was left in a lovely solitude against the soft backdrop of light background noise. When it was broken, Jane found herself too surprised by who broke it to be annoyed at such breakage, to begin with.

“Did you enjoy the concert?” Ludwig’s hand was wrapped around the delicate stem of glassware, the port inside seemingly untouched. 

Jane, while not finding the younger Beilschmidt the least bit unpleasant, couldn’t help but wonder why he was talking to her.

“I did and you?”

“Yes, very much.”

A little pause fell between them. Jane would’ve rather a dish or cake fell, so at least she knew when the awkwardness was over.

“That’s right – you and Mr. Vargas are good friends, yes? It was probably nice to see him play.”

“You’re right, it was.”

The next silence that fell was uncomfortable enough that Ludwig seemed to notice it as well. 

Jane didn’t quite understand the younger Beilschmidt but he didn’t seem particularly off-putting in any way. He was certainly less abrasive than his older brother. He seemed to be the voice of reason, unlike some of the company he kept, and while quiet, he didn’t hold the shyness that some with more reserved temperaments were mistaken for.

In fact, Ludwig seemed to hold the prominent stability of a pillar with his broad shoulders and good posture, and all the prestige of some well-established, respected institution, with his starched collar and sleek frock.

It was then that Jane noticed something small and out-of-place on that very frock.

“Your coat,” she said as Ludwig at once looked down to where her gaze had fallen. “It’s ripped.”

“Goodness, you’re right.” Ludwig’s fingers inspected the tear -- a few inches beneath the end of his right lapel -- with surprising gentleness. “How embarrassing. Excuse me while I go take care of this.”

Jane surprised the both of them by catching Ludwig’s elbow as he turned to take his leave. His eyes seemed to burn where she touched and Jane hurriedly pulled her hand away.

“Now, there’s no reason to bother the help when they’re already so busy.” 

Jane put on a pleasant smile if only to smooth over any awkwardness from the past few moments. “I’m got two perfectly good hands right here and they're not entirely useless either. Shall I help you mend it?”

“Really, Miss Doe, you needn’t trouble yourself. We have people for that.”

“Don’t be silly! I’m not the least bit busy nor inconvenienced.”

Ludwig still looked unconvinced, but he was hardly one to argue with a guest, let alone to do it twice.

“Very well. If you follow me into the house, we can go somewhere quiet and get it done quickly.”

“Splendid.”

-

The walk to the house was short and tranquil. As Jane had wished from the beginning, not one person turned to inquire about her whereabouts – a perk, perhaps, of being escorted by the man who lived there.

The ‘quiet place’ Ludwig had been speaking of ended up being Hyacinth’s parlor, where, as fate would have it, in one of the many fine rosewood drawers, they located a needle and thread.

Though Ludwig shucked the garment off for Jane to stitch, he lingered nearby, sitting in a chair just across from hers before the fire lit at the hearth as she held the coat in her lap and threaded the needle.

The fire crackled, and for a few moments, the room only consisted of the hungry snaps and pops of kindling spitting up embers in its quick, violent death, and the drag of the thread through the fabric. Jane worked slowly, methodically, more careful than she might’ve otherwise been since Ludwig was watching so closely. 

He struck her as the sort of man who took great care in seeing things done properly. As such, she made sure to be the sort of woman who took great care of things in his presence.

After a few moments of this industrious quiet, Ludwig finally spoke.

“You’re quite good at this.”

It almost made her laugh. She was hardly a seamstress; a child could’ve done what she was doing with more or less grace. Still, to the untrained eye of a man who’d never had to sew his own buttons before or mend his own clothes, she imagined even her handiwork looked somewhat impressive.

“Thank you,” she smiled a little ruefully. “Luckily, it’s just a small job, so you needn’t notice how crude it really is.”

When Ludwig turned his salient gaze to hers without a hint of a smile, Jane was hasty in adding her clarification.

“I’m just teasing, of course.”

The tear in the coat looked like a half-closed wound, with the unfinished section still gaping in a ragged, leering frown. Jane focused hard on this and kept sewing.

“Do you do this sort of thing for Mr. Bonnefoy?”

“No – he’s like you. He has people around for that.”

“Then, your role at Yeatlor is that of a Lady?”

Jane’s hand slowed as she grew thoughtful, not at all perturbed by his probing questions. It was the only way some people knew how to communicate. 

“Not quite.” She didn’t dare claim any part of running Yeatlor.

“Then, you’re just…his guest?”

“I suppose so.”

“You’ve been there quite a while.”

Jane looked up at him. There was no trace of malice on his face.

“I have.”

Jane felt a sharp bite into the pad of her forefinger. Letting out a hiss of pain, she drew it to her face to inspect it and stuck the sore tip between her lips to soothe it. Ludwig looked alarmed but had nothing to offer. 

He watched her for a few moments, until she withdrew her finger to inspect it again, her cheeks heating slightly.

Jane cleared her throat and resumed sewing. Ludwig seemed to relax into his seat.

“Anyway, what about you? You’ve been here at Hyacinth for a while, no?”

“I’m not sure I quite catch your meaning.”

Jane let her eyes stray from the needle to him for just a moment.

“I mean, Mr. Beilschmidt’s inherited this estate already if I’m not mistaken. So, why haven’t you up and married some handsome lady with a generous dowry?”

“That’s a good question,” Ludwig admitted. He ran a hand over his face and the gesture aged him a good decade or so. 

“Does it not make more sense for my older brother to marry first though?”

“Is that the answer you’re going with?”

“Indeed, it is.”

Jane couldn’t hold back a laugh at this.

“Now that you mention it, Francis was actually hoping I’d have made a strong enough impression on your brother at that past ball.”

While she'd been appalled when it had actually been happening she couldn't help but find tremendous humor at the mention of it now. she looked up, expecting Ludwig to offer at least a small smile in return.

His face was as impassive as ever.


	25. Chapter 25

Ludwig rubbed his jaw, a peculiar look in his eyes.

“I’m glad that didn’t happen.”

Jane’s brow lifted.

“Oh?”

She was about to ask why that was when suddenly the doors opened, and Colonel Fernández strode in, his broad, white smile making the warm, quiet atmosphere in the room evaporate almost instantly. 

Ludwig looked a little annoyed at the Colonel’s intrusion, and it was then that Jane realized that that’s what Antonio was doing -- intruding. 

Ludwig had taken to this room because it was a place where no one was to disturb them – at least, no one was _supposed_ to. Years away at sea paired with a brash optimism that seemed to outshine almost everything else in him had made the Colonel either unwilling or unable to read the room.

The Colonel’s eyes, more perceptive than the mind, fell right to the coat on Jane’s lap. He frowned.

“Oh, Ludwig – you tore your coat. That’s a shame,” he looked to Jane. “Anyway, it’s about time for us to go.”’

“Already? I thought there was a reception after the performance?”

“It’s our visit that’s cut short in particular, Miss Doe. Yeatlor has sent word that Francis’ has come home.”

At the mention of her absent bedfellow, Jane stiffened.

“Can’t you go on without me? I’m having a lovely time. Besides, I’ve Ludwig’s coat to finish.”

Antonio raised an eyebrow at Jane, and then Ludwig was rising to his feet and easing his coat gently from the woman’s grasp.

“Don’t be silly, Jane, you needn’t stay to finish the coat. We have people to finish it up. I appreciate the thought, though.”

Jane shot Ludwig an outraged look, though he didn’t notice it. 

Both men looked at each other now, a united front on the matter of what was proper for each person in that room to do, coat or no coat.

“See? Let us be off, Jane. Francis must be waiting for us.”

Jane rose and gave a final wooden curtsy to Ludwig before following Antonio out the door. He’s _waiting for_ you _at least,_ she thought mutinously to herself.

-

They rode back to Yeatlor in great haste, with Jane’s back thumping against Antonio’s chest, his arms caging her protectively against the horse as they bounded over the rolling hills. The wind at her back was almost enough to make her forget her ire towards Francis.

Almost, but not entirely.

Upon arriving at Yeatlor, Mihail took Antonio’s horse, and Jane let the Colonel take the lead as they entered the house.

Charlotte was waiting to greet them, though her presence was rendered obsolete by that of the master of the house himself, who was also eagerly awaiting his guests’ return.

Francis saw his good friend and went at once to greet him.

“Toni! I’m sorry I missed you this morning.”

The two men met in a hearty handshake, Francis’ other hand coming to clap at the other man’s elbow, securing their familiarity in the gesture.

“Ah, don’t worry about it, my friend. This one kept me well entertained,” he sent a playful glance Jane’s way. “I hardly noticed you were gone!”

With her cloak now in Charlotte’s care, Jane turned to receive Francis with a tight smile.

“As did I. Welcome home.”

Francis ignored the ice in her tone, never faltering in his regular warmth. Jane watched as Francis bowed to her, a knowing smile at his face as he took her hands in his.

“And of course, my Jane. I hope you didn’t find breakfast too lonely without me this morning.” He gave her a quick wink. “Did you have fun?”

Jane kept her face cool.

“Colonel Fernández was here when I woke up, so I wasn’t lonely at all.” Her eyes bore into him. “And yes, the concert was lovely.”

“Good, good.” 

He squashed any remaining pettiness when he used his light grip on her hands to pulled her forward so that his lips might find her temple, where he brushed a swift, chaste, yet no less tender kiss.

Jane’s face heated. She had no words for this – it hadn’t even brushed the periphery of where her thoughts resided. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Antonio’s face at witnessing the exchange, his brow lifting like he too hadn’t considered it.

Francis carried on, undisturbed.

“Now then, shall we carry this business to the drawing room? You don’t mind if Jane joins us, do you, Toni?”

“Not at all, not at all. In fact, the lady might have some good insight on the troubling news I bear.”

No! she had planned to steal away to her room where she could pore over the last few seconds and dissect the enigma that sat between Francis’ ears in peace! Damn it all.

“The news you have is troubling?” inquired Jane. “Then can it even wait for the drawing room?”

They started the short trip to the white double doors, and sure enough, Toni was in no need of private quarters in which to bare what vexed him.

“My troubles started about two days ago when João and I were playing cards.”

Goodness, was this going to be a money issue? 

She mentally cursed Francis for asserting that she stay during this. In the drawing room, tea was already waiting for them – Francis must’ve called for it before they’d returned. They took their seats where the sofas were, and Jane was the only one to take up a cup if only to keep herself busy while the men talked.

“Everything was going fine,” Antonio continued. “We were drinking and smoking and playing, and I was winning – you know, just like the best of times. Just like always.”

Francis chuckled. Jane tried very hard not to roll her eyes.

“Then, out of nowhere—” Antonio’s eyes went wide, and he brought his hands up, palms out, fingers spread in an explosive movement. “João says to me that he’d like to get married! Would you believe that? When he’s still up to his neck in debt!”

“I see – that _is_ a problem.”

“You’re telling me! I have no idea what to tell him.” Antonio paused. “Or, well, I did – I told him ‘no’ and now he hasn’t spoken to me since.”

“ _Quoi?_ No, that can’t be. Tell him that that violates the conditions of his contract or something.”

Jane set her cup down on the table with a resounding clank. 

Francis and Antonio looked at her, surprised.

“A problem? I fail to see how it’s any of your business.”

Francis and Antonio looked as disgruntled as she felt. 

“What? He works for you, right? You don’t own him.”

Francis and Antonio exchanged a look as if silently deciding who should be the one to talk sense into her.

“Jane,” Antonio started. “I _do_ own him. So long as he’s indebted to me, he’s mine.”

“I shouldn’t know why. Can’t Mr. Silva owe you money and work it off?”

Antonio let out a harsh bark of a laugh.

“I see now – you’re joking. Jane, you can’t say such things; people will think you’re serious.”

When Jane looked at Francis, his face looked pressed, like he was concentrating on toeing the line between Antonio’s and Jane’s opinions on the subject.

“Besides, Jane, how could a man in so much debt afford to keep a wife? He doesn’t even keep himself, technically.”

Antonio took up his cup of tea and gestured to himself from around the porcelain drinkware as if to indicate that that, too, was his.

“I suppose, but that seems like an awfully shrewd reason to keep someone from the happiness of marriage.”

“Didn’t you say _you_ didn’t want to marry?” Francis mused, with a curious tilt of his head.

Jane felt a vicious heat rise in her face. Her temper flared with an abruptness that almost winded her. It was choking, stifling. She wanted to protest him involving her in the conversation in the first place. 

Besides, they were talking about Mr. Silva – how did he manage to make this about her? Jane tried to speak, but the words turned to sand in her mouth.

Antonio spoke before she could.

“What?” he asked, his green eyes wide as he looked between his two companions. “What do you mean Jane doesn’t wish to marry?”

Jane felt like her skin was crawling. Francis turned towards Antonio to respond while she was right _there_. She didn’t even hear the words he spoke – all that mattered to her was that he’d felt qualified to speak on her behalf when he had scarcely understood her stance on it himself.

Her fury grew, the rising feeling of heat becoming a crushing weight that threatened to suffocate her from the inside. She was on her feet in an instant, startling Francis out of the sentence he’d been in the middle of.

“Jane? What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m going for a walk. I need air.”

Before either of them could answer, Jane spun on her heel and left the drawing room. Again, bypassing her cloak, she strode out, luckier this time than the last she’d left Yeatlor in a hurry, as the sun was still out and could warm her skin past the nip in the air.

It occurred to her as she left that Francis and Antonio might’ve assumed she’d gone to the gardens; otherwise, where else would she go? 

She didn’t care to correct them nor to figure it out. She set out on the path leaving Yeatlor and didn’t stop until it was out of sight.

-

It took her a while to realize that she was taking the same route she’d taken the night she’d caught Francis and Mrs. Kohler – a thought she hastily pushed away with how sick it made her. 

It all looked so different in the light – the broken fences, the worn road, the green hillsides riddled with upheaved roots and mud banks. 

She let her light, gauzy skirts thrash with the aggression of her gait, her hands clenched like she was biding her time and strength to throw a punch, though she had no target.

So many things, she thought bitterly, looked different in the light, most of all, perhaps, her lover’s intentions.

The bite of her nails into her palm fed her rage rather than tempered it. She thought that she might walk and stay angry until she fell right over the edge of the earth.

She felt so unshakeably angry and was quite sure nothing could move her from this sour, foul mood.

Surely enough, nothing did, that is, until she came across something peculiar on her way.

Jane stopped when she spotted a light blue lump on the other side of the fence a little way down the path. When said lump straightened up, revealing a waterfall of silvery-blonde hair from beneath a broad-rimmed hat, Jane knew it to be the younger Miss Arlovskaya.

“Natalya?”

Jane watched as the woman’s shoulders leaped, and as she turned around, she nearly upturned her basket, full of the asters that spotted the area around her.

“Jane, what are you doing here?”

She realized how she must’ve looked just then, aggressively walking with no cloak or destination in sight.

“Oh, you know, I’m just…out.”

“For a walk?”

“Precisely.”

Natalya nodded as if she understood.

“Yes. Our estates are big, but somehow, it can still feel like the walls are closing in.”

Jane thought she could breathe a little easier now.

“Yes, yes, that’s exactly right.” She drew closer to the fence and folded her arms on the top-most rung. 

“Then, what of you? What are the flowers for?”

“I’m picking them because I had a dream.”

“You dreamed you were picking blue asters?”

“No, I’m picking them because of the dream I had.”

“Your dream told you to pick flowers?”

Natalya made a face like Jane had said something exceptionally dull.

“ _No_ – these flowers give me…clarity. Wisdom. I need them because I didn’t understand my dream.”

“’ Wisdom’, huh? You should send a whole bouquet to Francis then,” Jane muttered.

“What’s that?”

“Never mind. You were speaking of your dream?”

“Ah, right.” Natalya’s brow furrowed, and the gravity it added to her delicate features alarmed Jane. 

“What strange dreams they were.”

“Then, there was more than one?”

“I suppose so.”

Natalya ducked her head, one hand coming up to take her hat off. 

She fiddled with it for a few moments before leaning on the opposite side of the fence beside Jane. 

Their elbows brushed. Neither woman bothered moving away.

“What happens in your dreams?”

Natalya hesitated, her brow furrowing once more. Her eyes looked from the ground to Jane.

“You have to promise that what I tell you stays between us.”

“You have my word.”

Natalya leaned in closer.

“I mean it,” she hissed between her teeth. “And no judging either.”

Jane nodded encouragingly. She didn’t suppose herself to be in a place where she should be judging anyone anyway.

“Then, my dreams,” Natalya paused. “Many of them have been…impure.”

Jane cocked an eyebrow up.

“Impure?”

“Improper,” Natalya said carefully. “Full of things…young… _honorable_ women should not be tainting their minds with.”

Jane met Natalya’s measured stare with full understanding. 

“So they’re…dreams of pleasure?”

“No!”

Jane flinched back at Natalya’s response. The other woman took a minute to gather herself before pressing on.

“I mean, not the…act itself.”

“Just…men and women?”

“Women only.”

Jane’s heart lurched in a way she couldn’t place then as the excitement it was.

“I see.”

“And they weren’t…doing anything but they were naked and the way they were sitting, the way they held themselves…you know? It all made me aware of what they’d been doing.”

“Did you know the women?”

Jane found herself hoping for an answer though she wasn’t quite sure what one.

“Sort of.”

Their eyes locked again. Jane didn’t have to ask; Natalya knew she had to elaborate.

“I mean, not personally, but I know they’re real. I’ve seen the likenesses before – an artist I know,” her cheeks flared a bright red at this, and immediately, Jane knew she was talking about Mr. Honda.

“The drawings! Of course, your dreams have come from Mr. Honda’s art!”

In her ecstasy at the revelation, Jane’s voice had grown in volume, and Natalya shushed her loudly.

“ _Keep it down_! Yes, many are from Mr. Honda’s drawings—”

“Then, you saw more of them? What did you think?” Jane narrowed her eyes, her nose twitching in amusement. “Did he ask you to pose for him?”

The fading blossoms at Natalya’s cheeks bloomed again.

“Don’t be ridiculous! He’s a gentleman, of course, he didn’t, although,” she looked to be swallowing something difficult. “Not all the women in my dreams are from his drawings. Some of them just…are.”

Silence fell between them. Natalya was picking at one of the flowers tucked at the ribbon of her hat, bending the bud this way and that from its stem until eventually, she snapped it off entirely.

Both women watched as it floated gracefully down to the ground.

“So to clarify, your dreams are just…naked women not having sex?”

Natalya’s lips twitched like she smelled something unsavory, but she offered no protest.

“Yes, I suppose that’s what they are -- and I have no idea what they could mean.”

Though she thought that speaking it aloud might prompt Natalya to issue similar treatment to her as the flower, Jane had a theory. Natalya had shared such personal details with her for a reason, and after a day of being treated like some pretty, little decoration, she craved feeling useful.

“I say this with no judgment in my heart,” she started. “But is it possible that such dreams could mean--”

“No. I don’t derive pleasure from my dreams. Not that that’s because of the women,” Natalya’s face flared again. “Or that I _do_ derive such…pleasure from seeing women, but the dreams aren’t…like that. These women, bare and with a certain...’ way’ about them, aren’t presented as objects of desire in these dreams. I don’t know how I know this, but I just do. It’s like, deep in my gut, I know I’m supposed to feel scared.”

“Of them?”

Natalya shook her head, and Jane understood.

“How strange.”

“Yes, I think so.”

The wind blew; the flowers in the field waved.

“Perhaps the strangest detail is from the one I had last night, though.”

“Is that why you’re looking for all of these flowers now?”

“Yes – it was this last dream that drove me to look…a little deeper. In this last dream, it was harder to see the women. They were still there, of course, only, everywhere – the strange wherever place we usually are when I see them – was completely drenched in shadows. Like someone’s put out all the lights.”

“How peculiar.”

“And that’s not all,” Natalya’s already fair face blanched further. “The women seemed to surface from these shadows all to tell me the same thing – not to go to the ‘red room’.”

The wind stopped.

“You mentioned in these dreams that you’re supposed to be afraid – are the women afraid?”

“They were in the last one.” Natalya hesitated again. “I think maybe all the weird news has been seeping into my dreams too. I saw the girls from the headlines, telling me – no, _warning_ me, not to go.”

Natalya turned her head to look at Jane just then, her gaze clouding over.

“And you – you were there too.”

Jane’s blood turned to ice.

-

This time, when Jane returned to Yeatlor, it was just Charlotte waiting for her. 

Now that the sun was setting and shadows bloomed in the wide-cut corners of the estate, the candles burned instead. No longer made regal by sunlight, Yeatlor looked almost ghoulish, like a crypt for someone who’d died fabulously wealthy.

“Welcome back, Miss Doe,” said Charlotte, taking the other woman’s cloak. 

“Mr. Bonnefoy wants to see you in his study.”

Jane was startled by this.

He’d never asked her to come to him like this before. Usually, if he wanted to speak to her, he came to her. 

Jane sensed strongly that this was not a social call. 

“I see. Thank you for telling me, Charlotte.”

Charlotte curtsied. 

“Miss.”

Jane lingered in the foyer until Charlotte’s dark skirts melted into the dim hallways. Then she took a deep breath and started in the direction of the study, shadows slipping over her face like a veil.


	26. Chapter 26

As she made her way to Francis’ study, the bizarre hope that something would happen on the way there to prevent her from making her way to her destination pressed at the forefront of her mind. Maybe there could be a knock at the door? Would the house catch fire? Perhaps the wood underfoot was so severely rotted, and even if they were on the ground level, she’d still fall through and plunge a hundred leagues into depths unfathomable because of a sinkhole or something.

Jane had no such luck; she arrived at Francis’ study moments later, the lights casting long, ominous shadows around her as if to whisper in her ear; _something wicked this way comes_ , which felt out of order because she had been the one to come. But still.

Jane stood before the shut door, warm light sliding out from underneath. 

She took a deep breath to steady her nerves and then knocked on the door.

There was a note of silence that fell. Then,

“Come in.”

She stepped in and shut the door behind her. The study was small by itself but made larger by how neat it was kept and by the sheer number of volumes Francis had tucked in the bookshelves that lined one wall. A fire burned heartily in the fireplace, flooding the room in warm light.

As Jane caught him then, Francis was seated behind a solid desk, his hair tied back and a pair of spectacles resting on his nose. He was reclined, holding up a series of documents to read when his eyes skirted off the page to meet Jane’s.

Any resolve she’d secured before coming into the room had vanished; she had never seen him look so productive. She wasn’t proud of it, but it had renewed heat simmering in her.

“Jane.”

She swallowed.

“Charlotte said you wanted to see me.”

Francis sat up a bit straighter and tossed the papers in hand onto his desk, where they slid and stair-stepped. Jane was a little disappointed when he took the glasses off too.

“That’s right.” He sighed like he was about to do something unpleasant and reached up to loosen his cravat. “There are words I could have with you.”

As Jane had thought, he was displeased with her. Now she was burning for an entirely different reason. 

She scoffed.

“ _You_ having words with _me_?” She ventured further into the office a few steps, her anger making her courageous. “Of course – how could _I_ not have realized that _I’d_ been so rude when you left me alone after coming to my bedroom at some hour and discussing my hypothetical nuptials in front of guests and—”

Francis’ brow lifted in his surprise. Clearly, he hadn’t considered Jane’s side of the situation. 

He came around the desk, his hands lifted in a gesture of surrender, hoping to cease the onslaught of bitter-hearted words she was hurling his way.

“Ah, yes, of course. I can see now that I’ve upset you—”

“Oh!” she gave a harsh laugh, and Francis paused, his face looking stricken in a way one got when he thought a puddle was a great deal more shallow than it was before stepping in it. “I’m _so pleased to hear that now you see_.”

“I’ve upset you. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

Now, this did stop Jane’s fury in its tracks. She looked at him, her brow furrowed.

“Clearly.”

The air, once so charged with her ire and the mysterious way he’d left things, and then the way she’d left them in return, seemed to calm. Now, it was quiet enough that Jane could notice the crackle of the fire and the way light glanced off Francis’ eyes, like the sun drowning on the horizon, sending thin needles of light over the fractured surface of the ocean.

“I don’t want to fight,” he said softly. He raised his hands to Jane tentatively, and when he saw that she didn’t move away, he let them rest at her elbows, bookending the cross way she’d drawn them over her chest. “So perhaps, we should _earnestly_ share words; lay out for me your grievances, and I won’t dispute them. Let me know what I’ve done wrong, so I won’t do them again.”

Jane looked away. His lips had turned into a small smile. She knew that if she kept looking at him for too long, she’d smile back, and her anger would let up, and so would the dignity that kept her loyal to her own heart and not deserting to his.

Francis would not let her turn away from him; he ducked into her line of sight, smiling softly, hopefully, as he had in her bedroom that night.

Jane clenched her jaw, determined not to let him feel too comfortable with her nerves, though she couldn’t stop her own smile from budding at her lips.

“Fine. Then shall I get started?”

“Please, _mademoiselle_.” He tugged a hand loose so that he could press a kiss to her knuckles.

“Then, your first charge is from last night.”

The playfulness in his eyes dimmed a bit.

“Ah, I should not have come then?”

“You shouldn’t have _left_.”

When Francis looked like he was going to argue, Jane cut him off.

“And before you say anything about that – I don’t care. I don’t care if it was to protect my ‘virtue’ or if you don’t want to be the sort of unsavory man who sleeps with maidens—” her nose wrinkled up at the repugnancy of the word “—because none of that matters to me. I wanted you to stay, and I felt awful when you didn’t.”

Francis didn’t say anything right away, so Jane felt a little awkward leaving things right there.

“Also, you said you wouldn’t argue against whatever I laid against you.”

At this, the corner of his mouth twitched up. Jane coveted the movement.

“Yes, you’re right. I am sorry, Jane. Truly, I am. I will not leave again.”

He did not kiss her again as she had hoped but instead stroked his thumb delicately across the back of her hand as he held it. Jane thought she might try and keep him to what he was saying later tonight – but for now, she had other matters to address with him.

“Then, the next grievance I have has to do with discussing the details of whether I will or will not marry—”

“Which, you will,” said Francis.

Jane ignored this.

“—with the _Colonel_ , of all people.”

Francis laughed.

“I can understand not wanting to discuss it in company – I won’t do it again, but what is it you have against Toni?”

Jane’s mouth turned down petulantly.

“Nothing,” she said, thinking of what Antonio had felt concerning Mr. Silva’s marriage prospects.

Francis laughed again, softer this time.

“It’s the Mr. Silva matter then? Why is it that you can condemn Toni for thinking a certain way but not condemn me when I think the exact same way?”

The playfulness in his demeanor had returned, and with it, Francis had taken up her hands in his, pulling her closer. Again, Jane turned away. She had to hold up a strong front.

“And who said I didn’t condemn you?”

“That’s fair enough. Since you do condemn me then, I’ll stay near you so that you might punish me any way you’d like.”

Jane’s face burned. She didn’t know how but Francis always seemed to make even the most innocent and unassuming remarks take on a meaning most improper.

“Then, consider our issues settled.”

“Was that really all?”

“Well,” she pinkened slightly. “I suppose I had taken issue with the k—” she cleared her throat before continuing. “The kiss from earlier. At the door. Again, in front of the Colonel, but—”

Francis winked.

“But what? It had only been disagreeable when you thought me a scoundrel, and now that I’m in your good graces again, you can let it be?”

Jane said nothing but burned further. This had precisely been it.

“It’s no matter – keep it for the next time we fight or don’t – I have my own grievance to lay at your feet.”

Jane’s brow lifted.

“You do?” she asked, bewildered.

Francis nodded. He turned once, stepping towards the window to peer out. 

For the life of her, Jane couldn’t imagine what he found in the dark.

“It’s night,” he said. 

“So it is.”

Francis turned back to her.

“Night has just fallen, and you’ve just returned home.”

“That’s true.”

“So then, am I to take that to mean that you were walking home as it was getting dark?”

“I suppose so.”

Francis clamped a hand across his eyes.

“Jane, honestly.”

“What?”

“ _Alone?_ ”

Jane knew Francis had let her unload to him without a fight, and she had initially planned on returning this favor, but a nagging thought in her brain wouldn’t quite let her.

“So you can leave on your own and disappear, but when _I_ do it—”

“It’s different,” he said flatly. “Women are going missing.”

“Feliciano was attacked!”

Francis scoffed.

“I’m hardly Mr. Vargas, and anyway, I didn’t storm out on a whim. I was in town trying to get information.”

“Information on what?”

Now Francis’ face was solemn, the levity of a few moments ago wholly evaporated.

“I haven’t been able to rest easy since Miss Arlovskaya came over with news of the mass grave. The thought of you, just going where you please, unchaperoned…” Francis gave his head a little shake. “It’s not safe. So, I went to town to see if the magistrate had any news on the disappearances. 

I managed to find the papers within the last five months that detailed the last known whereabouts and descriptions of the women who went missing. I thought it would be helpful, I thought I’d get an answer and go home, that indeed they must’ve been close but—”

Francis’ voice broke off, and in the deafening silence that crashed over them in its absence, Jane realized that his volume had risen to an excited register.

“Well? Are they close?”

Francis watched her for a moment, something untraceable passing over his face. Then he grabbed one of the papers from atop the pile on his desk. He held it out for her to see. On it was an artist’s depiction of a tall house engulfed in flames. 

The headline read; _FIRE ON ROSEBERRY AND CEDAR, ARSON SUSPECTED._

“I found that five months ago – about the same time the first of the disappearances started – there was a building that burned down. That, _someone_ , had burned down. And in that fire, not a lot was salvaged but, of all the things to have escaped the destruction, do you know what did?”

Jane shook her head mutely, and Francis turned back to his desk, whisking the first paper away to set back down. Jane had expected him to pull another paper from the pile, but instead, he went behind the desk, so he could open the drawer. From it, he pulled a piece of parchment much bigger than the newspaper had been on, and rather than folded, it was rolled up. Francis seemed to hesitate before passing it along to her. Jane felt her apprehension grow.

“This did,” said Francis quietly, and he passed it to her.

Jane unrolled it, holding it from the bottom and unfurling it in a slow, upwards motion. It was then that she noticed it _was_ a drawing.

From where she held, she first saw a pair of bare feet. Then as she continued to roll upwards, she saw the light slope of calves and then a steeper slope as thighs manifested – all bare. 

Jane’s stomach flipped; she already was finding a strong resemblance to Mr. Honda’s drawings.

She continued to unroll, her hands sweating against the paper. She knew halfway through that the woman in the picture was nude; her hips and the tuft of hair between her legs had made that perfectly clear. Jane kept unrolling, past the swells of her breasts. She slowed when she neared the woman’s face. She thought of Natalya’s dreams, the women warning her not to go to someplace called the ‘red room.’ The sweat at her palms grew more persistent.

Jane tried to swallow, but her throat was thick.

Francis was watching her intently, waiting for her reaction. 

Though he stood behind the paper, he knew she hadn’t uncovered the woman’s face yet. He knew because she hadn’t reacted. Who was this woman?

Francis stood a few feet away from her, which might as well have been miles what with how they had been earlier. Jane was suddenly afraid.

She finished unrolling the paper and found her own face staring back at her. 

She didn’t understand. She couldn’t understand.

This drawing was precisely like the other ones Mr. Honda had done. It had the same heavy charcoal strokes, same prominent lines, a naked woman in a desirous pose, her legs spread, her body luscious and waiting to be touched. Only – it wasn’t some woman with rouged cheeks, kiss-bruised lips, and doe-eyes. It was her face, her face, her cheeks dark with passion and lips parted like she was either trying hard to catch her breath or waiting for someone to stick something in between them.

Jane dropped the drawing as if it burned her to the touch. Francis kept his distance.

“I couldn’t get any more information on who owned the house. Discretion was necessary to this client. The man who rented out the house is dead.”

“Alright.”

Jane didn’t know what else to say. She and Francis watched each other now. Her heart was pounding like she’d been running. She hadn’t, but she wanted to. 

Francis broke the stillness first by bending over to pick up the drawing. 

Upon seeing him go for it, Jane lunged first and snatched it up in her hands, crumpling the parchment in an iron grip.

“Jane,” he said softly, his eyes steady and hands open, palms to her, as if to show her he posed no threat. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” 

She could scarcely find the air she needed to talk.

“But who else has? I—” She felt like the walls were closing in. The fire, once a comfortable warm, now felt sweltering. Choking. “I don’t remember getting that drawn. I don’t remember—”

“Calm down. Do you know anyone who could’ve possibly drawn this?”

“I don’t. I—”

She had no recollection of posing for such a drawing. Still, she couldn’t deny that the picture, not just in content but in style, had born a striking resemblance to Mr. Honda’s work. Jane could not bring herself to reveal Mr. Honda’s name.

Instead, she looked at Francis, her eyes wide.

“I want to see it. The house,” she said abruptly.

No sooner had the words left her mouth did she see disapproval blooming at Francis’ grim face.

“It’s all burnt to a crisp. The structure’s been compromised – it’s not safe. It’s barely standing.”

“I want to see it anyway.”

She set her jaw. She thought the tension would make her feel strong, but instead, it just made her feel like a terrible, calcified shell of herself as if _her_ structure had been compromised. If someone had pushed her over, she wasn’t sure she wouldn’t shatter into a million pieces upon hitting the floor.

“Francis, I _need_ to. It might-- I might—” She cleared her throat. “There are so many things I can’t remember. If this is one of them, too, then…maybe it has something to do with who I was before or why I can’t remember. I mean the timing is just…”

Francis sighed, his shoulders sagging.

“Yes, there’s no way it can be a coincidence.”

The room fell quiet again, this time in a soft sleepy way like it was trying to make the atmosphere less abrasive for them.

“And even if it is,” Jane said, her voice thick even as she tried to laugh. 

“I can’t just let someone with compromising drawings of me run free.”

Jane tried to smile at Francis, but it was too forced for her to discern any real comfort from it when he returned it.

She shuddered to think that there might be more pictures of her like this because when she did imagine it, it was always buried amongst other naked strangers, locked tightly in the chest in Mr. Honda’s room just a short carriage ride away.

Her eyes were stinging, and it took her a few moments to realize that the emotion she was grappling with was shame.

Francis, though not able to sense all of this, could see her distress. 

He went to her and took her gently in his arms, his chest to her back, his arms circling around her. He could feel the rise and fall of her breath fill him, much like the woman herself did. His lips grazed her neck.

While Francis was terribly warm, and her current position was one she’d yearned for all day, all that vexed her was stubborn enough that his soft touch, nor tender kiss could dispel them.

“I hate not knowing how it happened,” she said quietly. “I hate not knowing where it’s from or why it exists.” 

The pressure in her chest grew; she felt like she was filled with lead. “And this thing? The disappearances, my memories…why is it all getting bigger and more terrible? What did I do?”

Her voice had risen and taken on a note of panic. She felt Francis’ soft breath against her neck.

“Hush, Jane, I—”

The door swung open, and on instinct, they both sprang apart. 

Charlotte stood there holding a candlestick. Her face was unreadable.

“My apologies, Mr. Bonnefoy. It was so quiet, I had thought you both had retired for the evening and had come to put out the lights.”

Jane noticed that she’d known Jane would’ve been there so long as Francis was. She felt butterflies stir in her gut at the thought.

“It’s fine. Thank you, Charlotte. You’re right – it’s late, so I rather think Jane and I will be retiring for the evening.”

He looked at her as if to confirm this. Having misplaced her voice, and maybe a bit of her brain too, Jane gave a weak nod.

“Of course, Mr. Bonnefoy. I’ll come back a bit later when I’m certain you’ve both gone to bed.”

Jane’s face burned again, among other things, at the mention of going to bed. 

Charlotte left, shutting the door behind her. It was just her and Francis again.

She had wanted this for the entire day. Just she and him, and now it seemed the universe had granted her her reward, but at what cost? And for what sorts of trials that might lay ahead?


	27. Chapter 27

"Ah," Jane tested her voice out in the silent room, wincing even though she spoke in a low voice. "I suppose it's late."

"Mm."

Francis was watching her, his brow folding in concern.

"I'm tired. I should go to bed."

She turned to leave, but Francis' grip caught her by the arm. It reminded her of when he'd done it yesterday, which now felt like a whole other lifetime ago, though he was gentler now.

"Won't you come to my bedroom tonight?" 

God, she wanted to. How could she say no when he asked her in a voice like that? The idea of being in his warm, luxurious bed, their forms pressed together under the shroud of his blankets, their limbs tangled together in the dark, was enticing. That is until she thought of where Francis had been that day and what he'd found.

What other pieces of her were floating out there for others to claim? 

Not all of them could be her champion and protector the way he was. Seldom did people have a heart, let alone a will, like his. The dark was smothering now, the shadow-shapes not their limbs at all, but something that choked and tangled and trapped. 

She was surprised to see that she did, in fact, know how to say no to him as she pulled her arm back and ducked out of his study.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, keeping her eyes drawn low.

Again, she found herself scurrying in the dark, willing for the wood to fall away.

-

The next morning, she again woke up with butterflies gathering in her stomach, less gentle and less beautiful than the day before. Today, there were no visions of forget-me-nots with the petals half pulled off and fluttery, girlish tickles in her gut. Instead, she imagined the wings mixing with viscera, greasy and wet and half-digested.

Again, she dreaded seeing Francis at breakfast, not that she had any sort of appetite anyway.

When she came down the stairs, though, Francis was already waiting for her, cloak and hat on. 

"Good morning," he said, looking at her kindly. Her stomach lurched.

"You're not hungry, are you, _ma chère?_ I thought we could get an early jump on the day and get breakfast while out."

"Out?"

Charlotte, who Jane had left in her bedroom, reappeared with Jane's cloak, though she handed it to Francis instead of Jane. Francis, in turn, took the liberty of draping the garment around her shoulders. 

When he tied the front, he was close enough that she could count his eyelashes and catch his scent. His eyes met hers as he gave the ties a secure tug, but he refrained from saying anything, lest he scare her away.

"Francis, where are we going?"

"To town."

"Town? Didn't you go yesterday?"

The corners of his eyes tightened, and it was then that Jane realized for once, Francis looked his age, the crows' feet giving away the weathered edges of his face and all it had seen.

"Yes, and now I'm taking you."

-

An hour later, they stood amongst the blackened and charred remains of the house that had burned down. It had set on a hill, now patchy with scraggily, coarse grass like the skull of a man who'd lost his hair none too gracefully. It still smelled like smoke, as well; the stench of destruction clinging to the structure's rotting skeleton like the scent of decay lingered with the dead.

"It's…a mess," said Jane finally, nudging a broken _something_ with her toe.

Francis nodded, watching as she poked around, his gaze occasionally wandering from her to skirt the surrounding area.

"No one bought the property after it burned, and as I said, the owner died."

"So it's no one's mess to clean up?"

"Exactly."

His eyes hovered down by the base of the hill that comprised the small property – where any sensible person would've installed a fence or a gate. Jane looked up to see what he'd found. Still, she saw nothing other than the walkway and a man who looked to be reading a newspaper by the crumbling end of the stone wall sheathing the path leading out of the main town area.

She scanned the debris, hoping to find something that might tell her something more -- _anything_. There were just more ash and silt and broken things.

"I wonder why the renter didn't buy it."

Francis picked his way through the mess to be closer to her.

"I suppose he left no tracks, so there would be nothing to cover up." 

He paused. "You don't…recognize anything? Nothing in your head is— _ah_ —turning?"

Jane shook her head, frowning.

"No, nothing."

"That's alright because I might have something."

Jane looked up at him, her head jerking away out of habit when she realized their proximity. She had almost turned her face up into a kiss. Francis was smiling softly at her, but his eyes were sharp. His lips twitched; he seemed to choose this closeness on purpose. 

"Don't look now, but that man, down by the path? He got here around the same time we did, and he hasn't left."

"So? Doesn't the cart to Shipmare pass by here?"

"Mm, so it does." Francis kept his face angled towards her, but his eyes peeked at the man through his fair lashes. "But then again, why does the gentleman read us and not his paper?"

Now Jane did look up to get a better look of the man for herself and watched just in time as a head of fair, almost white-blonde hair ducked behind the paper in haste.

He was dressed rather snappishly, and at his feet was a black bag that gave him a practical sort of look. Suddenly, Jane's mind put the pieces together.

"Wait, is that…Doctor Väinämöinen?"

" _Quoi_? Who?"

"The doctor from when Feliciano was attacked."

Almost forgetting the wreckage of the house, Francis and Jane went to go confront him at once. 

"Hey!" As they drew nearer, Jane called out to him, the hem of her cloak thrashing with the viciousness in her gait. "Hey, you! Doctor!"

When they were close enough, Francis reached into the man's hands and plucked the newspaper straight out of them.

The doctor went white as a sheet.

"Fancy seeing _you_ here," Francis raised an eyebrow.

DoctorVäinämöinen cringed away from him and towards Jane, only to foolishly position himself closer to the brunt of her outrage.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

"Nothing," he said tightly. "Nothing in particular – I was just by the way, reading and such. Hm? It's such a nice morning for that."

It was heavily overcast, with a fine mist hanging over everything like a wet blanket.

"That's nonsense!" Francis flung the paper onto the ground, where it wetted immediately.

"Why, I--!" A fire lit behind DoctorVäinämöinen's eyes. "I could be asking you both the same thing! If you want the truth, then have at it – I saw you two skulking about a place like this and came to make sure there were no unsavory going-ons!"

"Try again, this time with the truth." 

Francis reached forward to seize the front of DoctorVäinämöinen's shirt, surprising both him and Jane. Jane's hands twitched towards Francis, but then she realized she didn't really want to stop him, and so she let them down.

"Okay, okay, I'll tell you!" DoctorVäinämöinen's hands came up between them as if he thought Francis might hit him. "I used to come around here often!"

Francis released him, though he still had a daggered glare fixed on the nervous physician.

"You used to come around? When? When the house was still here?"

DoctorVäinämöinen swallowed.

"That's right."

"What for?"

Something guarded passed over Doctor Väinämöinen's face.

"I'm a physician. I came here as a doctor."

Jane's expression went skeptical.

"But you came around often? Was someone sickly was living here? What was their condition?"

He seemed to deliberate on answering them for a moment before ultimately deciding that it was futile.

"Not sick but…afflicted," said DoctorVäinämöinen vaguely. "So I came to rid them of their _affliction_ by performing certain services."

"What sort of services?" asked Jane.

"Who was here?" interjected Francis, his hand raising up as if to hold Jane back. She looked down at his hand and then up to his face in muted fury.

DoctorVäinämöinen chose to answer Francis.

"I never saw exactly. Someone…met me at the door to cover my head. Discretion, and such."

This struck Jane as particularly disturbing, though Francis appeared unfazed.

"What sort of conditions did you treat, Doctor?" 

"Poisonings. Some hemorrhages too."

Jane's eyes widened. 

" _Poisonings_?"

Francis did not match her shock. Instead, his brow pulled into a weighty furrow.

"And who suffered such afflictions, DoctorVäinämöinen?"

"I told you, I couldn't see—"

Francis cleared his throat, cutting the man off.

"Forgive me," he said as if he weren't very keen on being forgiven at all. "You misunderstand, _Monsieur_. I mean, what sorts of patients suffered such afflictions. The old? The young? Those born with a weak constitution?"

"Women. My patients were always women."

DoctorVäinämöinen grimaced. Francis and Jane exchanged a dark look that did not go amiss with the good doctor.

"What?" he asked. "What are you thinking?"

Jane didn't want to say it, and Francis seemed to think that neither of them should've been burdened with the responsibility of doing so.

" _Monsieur_ , please, save us both some time. Don't play dumb. Why do you think you were called to this house so often?"

"I told you, I don't know. Those people, they—"

"Yes, yes, they covered your eyes and spun you around in three circles and made sure you never found out the password to their little club; we get it – you weren't a part of what happened there, but you _were_ there all the same, no? Tell us, Doctor, with the best, most educated guess, your little, fine-tuned brain can muster, why you think you were there, always treating women for poisonings and bleedings."

Laid out like this, the answer seemed terribly obvious. 

DoctorVäinämöinen's face grew solemn, his dark eyes sad, like an empty grave waiting to be filled.

"This is purely speculation – I want it perfectly clear that I cannot say for sure that this is what was happening," the doctor's eyes passed from Jane to Francis and then back again. It was as if he were willing for them to understand that the bag was still sort of over his head in so many ways. 

The picture he had pieced together of the going-ons on this property were done so through the frayed, spotty holes of the sack they'd placed over his head. He'd had to squint to force the shapes to materialize before his very eyes.

Francis had a point, though; the mind was exceptionally talented at putting two and two, or maybe more and more, together.

Doctor Väinämöinen sighed heavily then, suddenly looking more like the sick than the healer.

"I cannot say with perfect certainty on why I was so constantly called here, however, the demographic of patients, their afflictions, and—" he paused "—other such circumstances have led me to believe that I was called often times after failed attempts at becoming _without_ child."

"You think all of the women you treated had been pregnant?"

"I _speculate_ that this may have been the case, although perhaps not by the time I got there. I was never there delivering children, mark me."

"And you didn't think to alert the magistrate of such a thing?" asked Francis sharply. "Not even about the pregnancies but of the occurrence of so many sick women in one place? I should think that would've seemed very suspicious, even to one with an unpracticed eye, such as myself!"

"Alert the magistrate, you say! With what proof? Better the man at the center of such activities – whoever that may be – not be caught yet than to have been caught and found innocent just because a couple of clueless do-gooders hadn't thought to gather evidence before running to grab the cavalry!" 

DoctorVäinämöinen's face reddened with the passion by which he spoke. He couldn't deny his compliance in what had already transpired those months ago. Still, he surely wouldn't let anyone imply him of a negligent character, especially one that was criminally so.

"Moreover, even if I _had_ evidence, I wouldn't know who to raise it against. I always met with the same man at the door, wearing a face-covering as well. He was only ever referred to in my presence as 'Hale,' and there's no one in town by the name of that. As you already know, they kept my eyes covered, so I never saw a thing. They paid me upfront in coin – no promissory notes to take to a bank for a magistrate to trace back to anyone."

At the end of the doctor's little spiel, silence fell again. 

Indeed, Jane and Francis had wanted to learn more, and so, they had. Even Francis didn't seem to have a response ready. A bitter chill nipped in the air; the mist had sharpened into a frigid, trickling rain.

Jane shrunk into her cloak, the wool chafing like bore bristles against her skin.

"Did you ever… _lose_ a patient, Doctor?" she asked in a quiet voice.

DoctorVäinämöinen grimaced.

"I never had the opportunity to see for sure." His mouth opened like he was going to say something else before he seemed to decide against it and shut it.

"But…?" Jane pressed and put a gentle hand on his arm.

DoctorVäinämöinen looked at where she touched him before raising his eyes to her, his brow lifting. He did nothing to shake her off. Francis' eyes dropped to where she'd touched too, but he said nothing.

"I administered the treatments and told them to send for me at once should anyone's condition worsen. I would never hear from them again until someone else 'fell sick.'" He hesitated for a moment. "Truly, though? And I'm not saying this to seem morbid. I've been in my field for many years. I sincerely doubt that all afflictions would've been seamlessly and perfectly recovered from without any complications. Especially with one of such a…volatile nature."

"Is there anything else you can tell us?" asked Francis. "About the property or otherwise?"

DoctorVäinämöinen thought for a moment.

"The house was empty most nights – or, at least, the windows were dark. I used to walk by sometimes, hoping that someone might recognize me and ask for help if they needed it, but no one ever did. Come to think of it, I don't think I ever tended to the same patient more than once. I don't like to think much on this detail but it might not mean much anyway. Everyone who passed through was practically a phantom – I have no reason to believe I or anyone else ever saw them outside that cursed place."

The wind picked up; Jane felt her clothes tug around her form, wanting to leave her and this desolate conversation for the escape this wild and untethered lover offered them. 

"That is, alive. When the first round of missing girls cropped up in the newspaper all those months ago, I could hardly believe it. And now here it is again? I haven't been summoned to anything remotely like what had been happening here, but still, I can't help but wonder…"

At this, Francis rounded on DoctorVäinämöinen, his reaction explosive enough that it startled both Jane and the doctor.

"Wait – do you mean to tell me that you noticed women going missing both times, realized a possible connection between the two, and didn't do a _thing_?"

"This again! I already told you it was only speculation and that there was no evidence."

"No, that is no longer a good excuse, _Monsieur_. You could've led the magistrate to his very doors – fat lot of good that'll do now when there are no doors left!"

"If I'd have done that, then they wouldn't have had me back at all! 

And then what would've become of those women? This village isn't exactly teeming with physicians, you know."

"What's become of those women anyway?"

Francis' accent was more potent in his fury, the words punching out in a silky, rapid sequence that the language wore like an ill-fit corset.

"I won't have you accuse me when the actual culprit remains out there, free to continue his nefarious acts! For your information, sir, I _did_ do something. Hired someone to do some digging and did it out of my own pocket – and I'm no rich man, you know, not like some." He sent a furtive glance down to the lovely, shiny buckles at Francis' shoes and the buttons on his coat.

"What?" 

"That's right, and he's quite good from what I've heard. He keeps his head down – keeps himself out of trouble and his nose on the trail," said Doctor Väinämöinen, tapping a finger against his own nose demonstratively. 

"I did it because indeed, things felt quite unsettled, and as a doctor, of course, I felt compelled to do right by the people I serve. The man I found is alright!"

"Who is he?" asked Jane. "Where did he come from? Surely he doesn't live here, for we'd have heard of such a man."

DoctorVäinämöinen shook his head.

"No, no. I won't tell. A stipulation of his work is that he'll only take jobs from people who value discretion as he does."

Francis took a step closer, one hand reaching for his hip. 

" _Monsieur_ , tell me."

Jane knew he didn't walk around armed, though _Doctor_ Väinämöinen, of course, did not know that. The doctor watched the ominous shape beneath Francis' cloak, trying to gauge whether or not it was a bluff. In the end, he failed.

"Then, if this is how things must go, I have no choice. But, mark me, if he finds out and refuses to look further, you'll only have yourselves to—"

"A _name_ , Doctor, please."

DoctorVäinämöinen looked between the two of them with something peculiar in his eyes.

"If I recall correctly, the both of you are acquainted with one Mr. Jones."

While familiar, the name wasn't so common that it could come to them without a few moments of carefully wracking through their recollection of acquaintances. Then, it hit Jane – Francis' garden, the furniture, and of course, those dimples. 

" _Mr. Jones_ is the man you hired?"

"The very one."

"Why, he never mentioned it to me!"

"And why should he have? I told you, discretion is of the utmost importance to him. In fact, if he finds out that you know—"

Jane grabbed onto Francis' arm and looked him hard in the face, her eyes wide and insistent.

"We have to go see him."

"What? I just told you—"

Francis turned to her, not seeming to even hear Doctor Väinämöinen.

"You're right. We have to see what Alfred knows."

"Have you heard a single word I've said? If you do that, I should hardly think he'll find out more!"

"Tell us – where can we find Mr. Jones."

Doctor Väinämöinen stared at them incredulously, his face red from the strain of keeping all that he was feeling tamped down for the courtesy of civilized society. He found that despite how he most ardently wanted to say no, the weight of all the other information he'd divulged to them had left him terribly unbalanced. 

Perhaps that was where the real gravity of his feelings came from – not of wanting to say no but of knowing that he was utterly incapable of doing so.


	28. Chapter 28

According to Doctor Väinämöinen’s details, Alfred was leasing a room at the Cittie of Farborne.

Both a pub and an inn nestled downtown, it had a tankard rusting on the roof, which served to keep the ample supply of drink flowing as well as being the town’s biggest eyesore, ensuring it was the first thing newcomers saw upon riding into town. It was also the local’s favorite greasy spoon. 

Upon arriving, they found that the innkeeper didn’t seem to value discretion as much as Doctor Väinämöinen had. He gave them the room number without Francis having to flash the bribe he’d prepared and sent them on their way without a second thought.

They climbed the creaky stairs, and Jane realized that she was excited to see Mr. Jones again with a little rush of embarrassment. She thought back to the last time she’d seen him when he’d kissed her hand and left Yeatlor.

As she and Francis approached the door – two down on the left of the inn’s upper level – she hoped her face didn’t betray the fluttery little feelings in her gut. God, she was mortified -- how both hideously inappropriate for the company she was keeping _and_ their reason for calling.

“This must be it, right?”

“Mm. According to the barkeep’s instructions, yes.”

Jane rolled up onto the balls of her feet to reach the knocker on the door and gave it three solid raps.

There were a few moments of silence. Jane looked from the door to Francis. Just when she thought no one was going to answer, after all, the door swung open with a creak and revealed Mr. Jones.

Jane felt heat gather at her face; she couldn’t help how her gaze fell to his surprisingly bare (and exceptionally _firm_ looking) torso. 

His skin gleamed as if he’d broken out into a vigorous sweat, though he must’ve been terribly chilled walking around like that without a shirt on. 

Jane’s eyes followed the wiry, blonde trail of hair from his navel down to where it disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers – and oh, look at that! Jane thought, a little disappointed – he was, in fact, wearing trousers.

Jane’s... _observance_ did not go unnoticed by Francis.

“ _Mon Dieu_ , must you answer the door when indecent?” he snapped.

Mr. Jones leaned heavily against the door. 

“If you must know, I was just about to bathe. I could’ve answered buck naked if that would’ve suited you better.”

Mr. Jones matched Francis’ sharpness before taking the time to remember that Jane was still there.

“You have my apologies, though, Miss Doe. Had I known you were here, I would’ve dressed properly. I hope I haven’t offended you.”

“Goodness, no,” said Jane brightly. “Please, don’t trouble yourself on _my_ account.”

Francis cleared his throat, now eyeing Jane a little suspiciously. 

His gaze fell blindly at the side of her head, as his companion was still batting her lashes up at their handsome, half-naked lead.

“In any case, Mr. Jones, we’re here because we have some questions – and perhaps answers, for you.”

Mr. Jones’ brow lifted.

“Surely not concerning another furniture commission?”

“Not at all. This time it’s regarding that little job you were doing for Dr. Väinämöinen.”

Mr. Jones’ face hardened.

“Why, Mr. Bonnefoy, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re speaking of,” he said coldly. “Now, if you don’t mind, it’s late.”

He stepped away from the door, which started to close rather suddenly. 

Lightening quick, Francis jammed his foot in to stop it from closing.

“Wrong answer.”

Jane watched the wood of the door war with Francis’ foot.

“Get out, Francis. Go home.”

“We’re not leaving until we get the information we need.”

“I’m not talking to you.”

Francis let out a harsh laugh, his voice terse from the effort he was already investing in trying to keep the door open. Now he had his weight against it, and Jane watched him, appreciating how good he looked outside of his usual polished, charming demeanor. 

“Why not? I thought we got on well before tonight!”

“Conflict of interest.”

“Who? Jane, here? We can send her down and have the barkeep look after her.”

“You will dono such _thing_ ,” interjected Jane flatly.

The straining at the door stopped, and then Mr. Jones reappeared. 

The abrupt disappearance of the force behind the door had Francis losing his balance for a moment.

“Not Jane. _You_. I know who you have as a house guest--”

Francis’ brow furrowed as he deliberated on what Mr. Jones said.

“Mr. Kirkland? Oh, don’t tell me you believe the rumors—”

“— _and_ who you shared your bed with.” At this, Francis paled considerably. Mr. Jones’ eyes picked up on this with a cold glint. 

“My business is the truth, Mr. Bonnefoy, not rumors. If he’s a suspect, it’s because there’s some reason to believe he is.”

The two men regarded each other quietly, scowling. Jane, who tired quickly of being ignored, piped up.

“What about me? Will you speak to me?”

Mr. Jones looked at her.

“I’d consider it _if_ your companion waits outside.”

“Absolutely not,” said Francis.

“Then, let’s go,” said Jane at the exact same time.

He looked at her, obviously offended. Jane couldn’t help it; she gave him a wide, almost cheeky smile.

“Where shall I go?”

“Hm,” Jane thought hard for a moment. “Why don’t you go wait downstairs? Where the _barkeep_ can keep an eye on you?”

Mr. Jones had opened the door a bit wider now, no longer seeming to guard it. He crossed his arms, one brow cocked, his mouth in a slouching half-smile.

“That sounds like an agreeable plan.”

Francis turned to Mr. Jones then.

“I don’t understand – Jane technically lives with Mr. Kirkland now too.”

“I would never do her the dishonor of questioning her virtue.”

Mr. Jones stepped aside so that Jane could pass into his room.

“Besides, I know her tastes are considerably better than the likes of Mr. Kirkland.”

Jane only had time to turn around and catch Francis’ stricken expression before the door shut. Then it was just her and Mr. Jones. 

She stood, suddenly losing much of her confidence as she watched Mr. Jones step silently around her to snag his shirt from off the post of a small bed pushed into the corner of the room. Her eyes dropped to his torso once more, unable to keep from watching the hard planes of his abdomen ripple as he tugged the shirt on.

He crossed his arms and raised a brow at her, though the small, upwards twitch of his mouth told her he wasn’t as irritable with her as he was with Francis.

“So, then, Miss Doe—”

“Jane, please.”

He ducked his head and let out an amused little huff of air.

“Jane, then. You wanted to talk.”

She felt small when he looked at her like that, like she was a small child who’d come to tell him about a monster hiding under her bed or something. 

She cleared her throat.

“Yes, I did.”

“Then, let’s talk.”

He turned to the hearth, which had a healthy fire crackling in it.

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

There was the light clinking of dishware as he poured them each a cup, which he then brought over to a simple table and chair set. It was by the window that was shuttered up tightly. 

Right. Discretion.

“Please, have a seat, Jane.”

His voice sounded incredibly close, and she couldn’t conceal the shiver that ran up her spine at the feeling of his breath at her ear. He brushed past her and pulled a chair out, gesturing for her to sit.

Jane obliged.

Mr. Jones sat across from her, suddenly seeming utterly different from the man she’d walked with in the gardens. His face was still handsome, though his eyes were sharper, his glasses appearing more like magnifying glasses – studious, scrutinizing – than like the open windows they once were, complemented by the freeing blue of his irises.

“What can I do for you, Jane?”

She took a sip of her coffee, and her lips twitched at the strength of it. 

She sat up a little straighter and forced herself to meet his gaze steadily.

“Mr. Jones, I’m—”

“Alfred, please.” 

He flashed her a white smile, and she flushed a little. He clearly wasn’t taking her seriously.

“Alfred,” she began again, with business-like candidness. 

“I’m here to inquire after your findings in the…investigation you’ve been conducting regarding the property the Doctor turned you on to.”

Alfred’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward as if trying to make her out. Jane held absolutely still to ensure none of her trepidation leaked out of her.

After a few moments, Alfred let out a steady stream of air and leaned back, the wood of his chair creaking under his shifting weight.

“I don’t normally discuss the nature of my…work with people, but I suppose we’ve passed that point by now.”

Jane didn’t know what to say to this.

“Unfortunately, I haven’t found a lot.”

“But what you _did_ find—”

He still seemed reluctant, but what else was there to do? The fact that they knew of his work at all was enough leverage for him to either risk the job by sharing his intel or to drop it entirely to avoid the risk, and in either case, he wouldn’t get his money.

“Yes, of course, I’ll tell you.” He took a sip of his coffee and swished it around in his mouth before swallowing. “So, I take it you noticed I’m not too fond of Mr. Kirkland?”

“Arthur Kirkland? With the little girl?”

“The very one.”

“Then, yes.”

“Right, well, I’ve been tailing him for some time. It turns out, he and some friends of his used to frequent the property, which served as a sort of gentlemen’s club, they referred to as the ‘Red Room.’”

Jane felt her heart drop in her. 

“What were they doing there?”

“Nothing unsavory – as if being there isn’t plenty condemning in itself. 

As far as I’ve been able to tell, they only went to drink and play cards. However, the first woman who went missing all those months ago happened to be an… _employee_ there.”

At once, Jane found herself thinking of the picture Mr. Oxenstierna had left in the commission he’d done for Francis. 

“And the other?”

Alfred shrugged.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Kirkland’s still my primary lead, though.”

Jane thought about Angelica and her father in the drawing room from the other day and shifted in her seat.

“I know you’re suspicious of him – but do you really, truly think he did it? _All_ of it?”

Alfred grimaced.

“I’m still investigating, so I can’t say for sure, but…”

Alfred shrugged again, his eyes darting upward meaningfully to meet Jane’s. 

Silence fell between them, filled by the chatter of the fire and the busy sounds of downtown outside. Alfred rose to grab a pinch of tobacco from a box he kept on the mantle before he grabbed the pipe from off the table, poked a bit of tobacco into it, and lit it to smoke.

“Alfred…” Jane felt her cheeks heat. She felt silly even asking this, but she couldn’t ignore the very obvious baggage of Francis’ Alfred had outed earlier. “What was Francis’ and Arthur’s relationship?”

Alfred’s brow lifted as he let out a steady stream of smoke.

“He didn’t tell you?”

Jane, who had thought she was making some headway, suddenly felt quite small again. She shook her head, feeling like she was shrinking into herself.

“Ah, well, it’s not really for me to say.”

“But earlier, you said—”

“Earlier, I _implied_. There’s quite a difference.”

Jane shot him a glare as Alfred puffed on the pipe.

“It’s not related to the case anyway.”

This comment vaguely stung like she was getting her hand swatted away from the cookie tray. Jane didn’t want to talk about Arthur and Francis anymore.

“So, what exactly are you investigating? Just the disappearances?”

“Anything that seems a bit funny, you know? Like that arson, although, you know, I got to thinking from what that doctor told me that the arson seems a lot bigger than _just_ a house burning down.” The room was cloudy with smoke now. “Then, _you_ showed up on my doorstep.”

Jane felt warm again, and she tucked her hands neatly on her lap as if she wanted to be careful about taking up too much space.

“In any case, if Kirkland ends up being innocent, I’ll find that out too.” He eyed her. “You should stop poking your nose through all this, though, yeah? If things go the way I think they’re going, they could get ugly quick.”

“I need to know.”

“What you _need_ is to stay safe.” Alfred’s voice softened slightly, and for a moment, he seemed almost like the man she’d been in the garden with. “I can’t promise I’d be able to keep you safe if I dragged you into this.”

“It’s not your responsibility.”

Alfred snorted.

“It has nothing to do with responsibility.”

Jane wanted to ask him more on that, but then there was a loud noise from outside the window that had both of them startling in their seats. 

Jane’s hands had jutted out on instinct, reaching out for the table as if the building were about to come down around them, and an anchoring hold on it would’ve saved her. In the process of this, her hand knocked her cup of coffee over. Its contents spattered all over the front of her light gown.

“What in the hell—”

Alfred was on his feet at once, going to the window and cracking open the shutters just enough to peer out. He peered out to survey the street below for just a moment before he pulled away and closed the shutters gently.

“It’s nothing serious – a horse threw a shoe below, and I think something broke in the cart too as a result – I mean with a sound like that, it must be a fair amount of damage,” Alfred shook his head. “In any case, it’s nothing to do with us, though.” 

“That’s good to hear.”

Jane was sitting there, damp and without a means to clean herself up. 

She was frozen; her arms spread like she wanted to separate the clean part of herself from the soiled. She felt ridiculous sitting there like a stump. It went against her every instinct to remain there in such a state. Of course, Alfred’s lodgings looked sorely short on things she could use to clean up, and she didn’t dare assume.

Alfred turned and saw her, his brow lifting as he took in the sight of her. Jane felt her face warm. 

“I seem to have made a bit of a mess of myself. I apologize, I—”

“No, no, it’s fine,” his eyes zeroed in on the brown stain over the lap of her dress. “I’m sure you’re paying for your little…spell.”

A quiet fell between them. It was starting to get a bit uncomfortable; the sodden fabric clung to Jane’s skin, cold, and when she moved, it chafed. She shifted in her seat and almost had half a mind to ask for her cloak so she could find Francis when Alfred spoke again.

“You can…go wash off if you’d like,” he said, looking to the corner of the room as he rubbed at the back of his neck. “The bathroom’s just there, and the tub’s filled. I was about to have a bath myself when you showed up. The water’s not used or anything, although it might not be hot anymore.”

The idea of what he was suggesting came over her slowly. Of course, the bathroom had a door, but to be alone in an apartment with a man -- to _disrobe_ in his private quarters…

At once, Jane realized how very silly this was. She’d been living alone with a man, more or less at Yeatlor for the past few months. She’d disrobed in front of said man before too. At the thought of that, all that had come to vex her in the past few days, new and terrible, melted away, as did the chill of the spilled coffee. 

In fact, she thought she was starting to feel quite warm now – she might not even mind the lukewarm bathwater.

She looked at Alfred.

“That’s very gracious of you, but, ah, you don’t think people would find it…improper?”

Alfred raised his eyes to meet hers -- this was another silly thing to entertain. It was obviously, terribly improper. Besides, who would go around talking about the improper things they did, or even their baths, to others?

Alfred knew this too, and so, it was with great thought and measure that he answered.

“I’ll not say a word if you won’t.”

“Then, it’s agreed.”

She rose to her feet and followed Alfred to the bathroom, which wasn’t terribly far as the room was relatively small. At the door, he lingered a bit awkwardly. 

“There are towels there,” he gestured to where Jane could plainly see them folded on an apothecary cabinet by the tub. “And I can bring you something clean to change into.”

His discomfort was apparent – she could tell that much. His face was tinged red with an uncertainness she’d never before seen in him. He seemed to look anywhere but her.

“Goodness,” she laughed in an attempt to lighten the mood. “What might people think of me? Wearing men’s clothes? It’ll be most unflattering.”

“I should hardly think a burlap sack would look unflattering so long as you were the one wearing it,” he said a little quietly.

Jane looked at him, the words struck from her mouth.

“Right,” Alfred’s hands tapped at the doorframe. “I’ll be back then.”

He left, leaving Jane in the bathroom. She shut the door and began to disrobe.

It was a little more difficult without a maid than she thought – the gown itself came off rather easily, as did her shoes and heavy, wool socks; the corset proved to be an issue, though.

Jane was still reaching back her arm as far as she could, in a half-hearted attempt to snag at a hook or ribbon or something. At the soft knock at the door, Jane nearly forgot she was just in her corset and chemise when she answered it. 

At once, Alfred’s face flushed, and he clamped a hand over his glasses and eyes, holding out a set of hastily folded trousers and a shirt, the thin wind of a belt coiled on top.

“Clean clothes, as promised.”

“Thank you – you’ve been a most generous host.” Jane accepted the clothes and set them atop the cabinet, beside the towels. “But, ah, if I could just trouble you for one more thing?”

Alfred didn’t say anything, but he didn’t leave either.

“You see,” Jane continued, cautiously. “I’m having some difficulty with my corset and…”

“Yes, yes, I see.” Alfred’s hand came down over his features; his voice sounded strangled.

Jane looked at him for a moment, waiting the way one did when they stood at the edge of a cliff and decided whether or not to jump. Then, she turned so that her back was to him. 

There was nothing at first, but then, there was a light tugging motion around her middle, and she could tell Alfred had begun. Gradually, she felt the pressure around her start to ebb – she was a little impressed with how he seemed to be figuring it out, although he lacked Charlotte’s or Francis’ speed.

“I think it’ll go quicker if you—”

Alfred scoffed, cutting her off.

“Have _you_ ever done this yourself? Or, even at all?”

“Well,” Jane’s face reddened. She was grateful her back was to him so that he couldn’t see her face. “I suppose not.”

“Right, then, don’t worry about it. Besides, it’s not so complicated from what I can tell.”

She heard the sound of ribbon being pulled loose, sliding against the garment’s stiff material, and then the garment loosened further, almost demonstratively.

She let Alfred finish in silence, and then finally, the corset hung loosely over her shoulders, barely sheathing over her form. Jane felt a little self-conscious now; he’d never seen her without her corset before. 

She thought of how Katyusha had seemed a little bashful at going without her corset in front of Jane for the first time and understood a bit better.

Jane turned around slowly, watching Alfred’s face as his eyes lingered low, still at where the hooks and laces would’ve been if her back had been turned. Now that she was facing him, though, his eyes were fixed markedly at the peaks of her breasts, swimming just below the surface of her thin chemise. His eyes were slow in moving back up to her face, brushing over the tops of her breasts, the sinewy ridge of her collarbone, and the column of her throat first. 

Her heart seemed to slow rather than speed up, and she thought maybe, without realizing it, she was holding her breath, trying to make the tiny, intrinsic mechanisms in her body smaller so that they might escape his scrutiny. 

“Thank you,” Jane said again, a little shyly now.

She slipped the garment over her shoulders and let it fall to the floor.

“I’ll leave you to it then.”

This time, it was Alfred who shut the door behind him to leave her alone. In this newfound solitude, Jane let her chemise fall from her body to gather at her ankles. 

She stepped out of this and into the pool of water in front of her.


	29. Chapter 29

She sank into the tub, the warmth climbing her body, sticking to her like a second skin. 

Alfred had been wrong – the water wasn’t too cold at all. She leaned back, her head relaxed against the lip of the tub, liberated in her nakedness and protected by the heat leaching through the water into her skin. Jane wondered what Francis was doing just then. She smiled for no one in particular; what would he think at what she was doing now?

And just what was she doing at that? She watched her hands, their image shivery and disturbed in the water. Her hands brushed along the tops of her thighs, silk on silk.

She could feel her nipples tighten though she wasn’t cold. In fact, her body felt like it was being melted down, a part of the warm one-ness of the bath. Her hands stilled in her lap, just above where the junction between her legs was.

Her eyes went to the door -- shut tight.

Her eyes went back down to where her hands hovered over. Maybe less tight.

She leaned back and took a deep breath, trying to relax as much as she could considering the limited space and the home she was in. 

Her thighs parted, and her fingers found her sensitive sex through the tuff of wiry hair, floating scraggily and upwards like seaweed in the bed of the lake.

There was already a slipperiness past that of which the water graced her with. 

So this is what she’d wanted really – not the bath. 

She felt invincible with the door shut, like everything that happened inside was hers and hers alone. Any apprehension at the notion of pleasuring herself when Alfred was just in the other room melted away, and she let her eyes fall shut. Her fingers rubbed slow, tracing the seam of her cunt leisurely, drawing out further seeping slipperiness.

At once, heat flared in her, fusing with the sultry luxury of the bath. It blended the outlines of her until she couldn’t separate where she ended, and it began like she was milk spilling from a glass. Her fingers started working more focusedly, spreading the lips to get deeper, finding that delightful little button and pressing that. The heat lapped at her more insistently. She imagined someone’s tongue between her legs and could hear her breathing pick up, leaving it to bounce off the tiles in a breathy little echo chamber.

The room disappeared; it was just her and this _pulsing_ – between her legs. It was this thudding inside her chest, the press of air out of her body, and the sharpness with which it was taken back. Sometimes her breathing would taper off into a whine. 

The sound just barely capped off with her voice, like the ringing of a bell with only one person around to hear it.

Or so she thought.

“Jane? Are you alright?”

The sound of Alfred’s voice cut into her before the realization of what it meant did. Her eyes cracked open lazily, her fingers never ceasing against her, her breasts peeking out from the water and then ducking back beneath with each rough breath.

Alfred was standing in the doorway, his eyes wide, his face red. He seemed to be trying hard to keep his gaze on her face, but she looked back at him through glassy half-lids, watching as his eyes fell from her face to her body.

When the realization of exactly what was happening dawned on her, of the break in her solitude, her body burned, white-hot. Still, her fingers forged ahead, fueled by the audience rather than tempered by it.

Both of them knew he wanted to be there and that she wanted him there. 

He would’ve left by now if he hadn’t. 

She would’ve covered up if she didn’t.

She moaned, feeling warm and buoyant; the sound seemed to startle Alfred into movement. She watched him swallow, his throat twitching. 

She kept her lips parted; they’d do neither of them any service closed.

“Then, do you still think you have no grounds on which to question my virtue?”

Alfred leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms tight against his chest. Jane could tell the gesture was supposed to look casual, but it only came across as guarded with how tense he was.

“I’m standing here, aren’t I? Does it look like I’m in a position to be questioning anyone’s virtue?”

His voice was graveled in his throat. Jane thought she could feel her fingers when he spoke.

“Technically, we haven’t _done_ anything improper yet. You’re standing too far away for that.”

Alfred looked like he was gauging how it might be to close the distance between them.

“And if I wasn’t?”

Jane leaned further back, pushing more of her body above the surface of the water, half-floating. She was cold where the water no longer touched her; her nipples were hard and aching.

“Do I look like I can see the future?”

“You look like _something_ , to be sure.” He jerked his chin towards her, gesturing to her fingers that had worked their way inside her, where her walls burned from the lack of lubrication and the stretch. “What were you thinking of?”

“Mm,” she took a moment to lean into her own touch, delighting in the way she worked herself. Pleasure, sweet and vicious flared up her spin, making her toes curl and face twitch. 

She gasped and arched into the touch, just to give Alfred a peek at just how much she was enjoying her stay before she looked up at him through her lashes once more. “I was just thinking about what I want.”

“What _do_ you want?”

“For starters, for you to come closer.”

It was a challenge as much as it was an invitation.

After a moment or two of deliberation, Alfred seemed to accept. 

He surprised her by cuffing up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows, and she got a quick glimpse of the bulge in his trousers before he came down to kneel at the side of the tub. Jane watched as his eyes slid over her nude form, closer now, like someone appraising fine jewelry. The closeness of his scrutiny almost made her shy, though she was too warm to be bothered with covering up now.

“Now what?”

He had one eyebrow raised. Jane reached one hand out of the tub to touch at the front of his shirt. Where she left water, the fabric darkened. She hooked a finger lazily along the neck of the shirt and gave it a tug as if she were trying half-heartedly to see what else lay beneath.

“Now I could pick up where I left off, I suppose.”

His eyes swept over her legs, pausing at where her knuckles were buried beneath her legs.

“And my role is…what? To watch?”

Jane arched a little more, so the wet slopes of her breasts were just below his face.

“You could. Amongst other things. I’d ask you to join me, but I doubt you will.”

Alfred’s face screwed up like he was taking a bitter pill.

“It’s not that I don’t want to – believe me when I say that’s not the issue—”

Jane shrugged and lowered herself back into the water.

“Whatever the reason, I won’t waste my breath.”

Instead, she wanted to leave him squirming, sitting in the quiet, her naked, wanting, and vulnerable in front of him. Her fingers rubbing at her slick cunt, her hips grinding down against her hand – and maybe other things, depending on how brave she felt. 

The thickness of the air, heavied by the water’s heat from earlier, carried the scent of her arousal. If Jane could still catch a whiff of it, even after she’d been simmering in it as she had been, she had no doubt Alfred could pick up on it as well. 

She hoped it drove him mad.

“I… don’t want to let myself be selfish,” he started, a little awkwardly. 

“Not with you. That complicates things. However, I have also opened my home to you. I won’t leave you wanting or…in _need_.”

Jane looked up at him, catching his eyes. The red at his face was gone. His expression was no longer uncertain. Instead, it carried with it the calm seriousness of a deep lake, full of depths, not treacherous, but dark and mysterious all the same.

Jane’s fingers were still hooked into the front of his shirt, giving her exactly the leverage she needed to pull him in for a kiss.

At once, Jane was struck by how different kissing Alfred was to kissing Francis, or even Feliciano or Katyusha. His lips moved more roughly, more domineering than any of her previous lovers, and he carried with him the taste of smoke. His large hands came up to close around her face, gently capturing her to him, but no less rough with work. His palms were warm like the sun lived in his skin, and suddenly, the bath felt very cold in comparison to the man kissing her. He tilted his face so he could get closer to her, his nose brushing against hers, their lips stacking until Jane’s were coaxed them open. His breath fanned against her – fanned _into_ her. She felt breathless; he was snatching her breath away. She sat up a little straighter and let him lead her a little bit out of the safety of the tub. She was wet and cold, but his arms were strong, his skin inviting through his shirt. 

She thought of earlier when she’d seen him at the door, and she knew at once her fingers were no longer enough for her.

She had pulled her fingers from between her legs now and caught him back, holding him to her as he did her. She was wetting his face then, her damp hands sliding into his hair, making blonde tufts stand at messy odds and ends, but Alfred didn’t seem to notice. 

He tore his mouth from her and went to her neck. Jane arched against him, holding onto him as his lips traveled over the sensitive skin, mouthing, licking, sucking – leaving a series of pink marks.

It’d be difficult to explain those later, but she couldn’t bring herself to stop him; she loved the idea of being marked by him. 

“Fuck,” he grunted. While Alfred hadn’t used language like that in front of her before, she barely noticed. “Forgive me – but, it _is_ rather difficult to keep myself from…to deny myself—”

Her lips twitched upwards into a smile. Alfred sounded like a man domineered by his need, his thirst – and for her? 

She had to hear him say it.

“To deny yourself what?” she asked, not at all innocently.

“ _You_.”

He held her closer, one hand leaving her cheek to go to her breasts. 

She leaned into his touch at feeling that tough, strong grip cup a breast, his thumb stroking over the nipple.

“Mm, it’s a shame you’ll do so anyway. I went through all the trouble of preparing myself too…”

Her thinly veiled innuendo did nothing to tamp down the _vivid_ image coming to his mind, and she knew it. With a growl, Alfred lunged, seizing her up against him so he could kiss down to her breasts, his glasses strewn clumsily across his face in the process. 

In this sudden movement, the water lapped at the sides of the tub, precariously close to the edges. The front of Alfred’s shirt was drenched, as were the sleeves. The warmth of the water bled through to the warmth of his skin. She could see the color of him too, pressing through, the fabric rendered almost entirely useless when this wet – a little bit like herself, she thought humorously. 

Alfred kissed hungrily down into the valley of her breasts, mouthing at the soft weightiness of them, nosing against her as if to get the most potent sample of her most authentic scent. 

The water slapped over the lip of the tub and wet the floor, but neither of them cared much.

She felt a slight sting as Alfred latched on, capturing her soft skin in a rough suck; he was peppering those little pink marks across her breasts now. 

These would be even _harder_ to explain. A little nagging worry at the thought of Francis dampened the exhilaration of having Alfred kiss her like this.

The hand at her breasts moved further down, delving beneath the surface of the water. She felt fingers that were not hers comb through the hair between her legs, and she startled a little, realizing where Alfred was.

Her chest heaved, her body hyperaware of every second that passed when he hadn’t touched her yet, knowing that at any second, that would change. 

His fingers found her folds – just as hers did earlier, but his strokes were different; more formidable, more persistent, alien to her body. 

It did incredible things to the heat already smoldering beneath her skin; she thought she might collapse into a heap of embers.

She raised her hips to cant against his fingers, her hands balling into the front of his shirt, making sure he could never stray far even if he did – God forbid – stop touching her like that.

“Alfred,” she sighed wantonly, and the man’s head bowed deeper against her as if by speaking his name, she had exercised some unseeable, immaterial control over him. 

“Hm?”

When he lolled his head up to look at her, she could see the desire reflecting back in his eyes; she could also see her own reflection. She smiled, matching his glassy-eyed stare with one of her own, her eyebrows drawn into severe, pained arches.

“Won’t you take me to the Red Room?”

His ministrations never stopped. Two of his thick fingers pushed into Jane, burning more than her own fingers had from how the water wore away at her body’s natural lubricant. One of his eyebrows was raised again – her request, odd and certainly not approved of, had jolted him out of his feverish stupor, at least momentarily.

“The Red Room?”

“The place – the new business you’re tracking Mr. Kirkland to.”

He grunted as if to communicate to her that that wasn’t the issue with her request. His fingers pumped at a steady pace, but his voice never wavered.

“That’s not really a place people take their…lady companions.”

She sunk further into the water, sliding towards his fingers as they thrust back into her.

“I know, but I—” his fingers slid over a particularly sensitive spot, and for a moment, she forgot what they were even talking about. “—need it.” 

Alfred gave her a toothy grin, pleased with how she responded to his touch and her little mix-up with her words.

“ _This_ I have no issues giving you.”

Her walls clenched around him like her body was trying to covet him for herself. Jane’s cheeks flared.

“I meant ‘to.’ As in, I need to go to the Red Room.”

Alfred drew out, and on the next inward thrust, he added a finger. She gasped as the added friction made her mind blank for a few moments.

“Why not? I’m investigating—”

“I’m investigating.”

He leaned close to her, his nose skimming her cheek. When his knuckles crashed against her, she could feel it in her clit.

Her hands reached up to grip at the sides of the tub, anchoring her there with talon-like intensity. A thin stream of air pressed out from her lips. While still relatively new to matters of the flesh, she could understand well enough when her partner had her building up to her release.

“But you know I’m not going to let this go. Take me yourself, and you don’t have to worry about me getting into trouble.”

His eyes seemed to flash at the double entendre of her words. 

“I already told you – I don’t know if I can keep you out of trouble.”

He drew his fingers out slowly and then rammed them back into her. The impact jostled her entire body, the drag of him inside of her leaving Jane panting. Her skin gleamed, even where the water never touched with the shimmer of a light sweat.

“If you don’t take me at all, I’m just going to go on my own.”

Alfred’s other hand came up to root behind her neck, holding her tight so that her temple was anchored to his forehead. Though it was nowhere close to where his other hand was, he managed to tether her like this, holding her completely still so he could finger fuck her.

Jane’s entire body tensed up, trying hard to resist how stubbornly he willed for her to yield to him. She could feel the sweat on his skin and hear the roughness of his own breath as it wracked his body.

He went too hard on the next thrust; Jane felt a sharp splitting pain that ebbed into an ache as he withdrew again.

“ _Alfred_!—” she winced.

“I might’ve guessed.”

His thrusting eased up a little, keeping his rhythm but losing some of his viciousness. His thumb reached to find the sensitive button nestled at her folds, moving in small, fast circles.

Jane thought of the last time she’d come – at Francis’ own talented hands just two nights prior – and shivered. 

“Ask me to end this.”

His fingers were focused and dexterous against her. She thought of earlier, when he’d stuffed his pipe with tobacco, the thick, calloused tips, and short, clean nails.

“Take me to the Red Room,” she gasped.

“Ask me – or better yet, _beg_ me.”

Her cheeks heated, and she caught his gaze. His eyes were blue fire and deadly in their seriousness.

“Or you won’t take me?”

“Or I’ll never let you finish.”

The thought was awful – both of making it so close but not getting to go to the Red Room, as well as not being able to finish. With a taste of how good the release was, she was still without any of the experience of bargaining. She crumbled immediately.

“Please, Alfred, won’t you take me?” Her face drew in a tight expression, her brow knitting together as she looked at him from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. It was like she could feel his fingers in her entire body.

“That’s it.”

His fingers sped up ever so slightly but never fumbled. He seemed to hit Jane’s clit even harder; it sent jolts through her. She pulsated around him.

“I need it – I need _you_ , I—”

Her voice cut off for a moment as her thighs shook around him. 

“ _Oh_!-- Please take me, Alfred. Please!”

The heat coiled in her gut like a clenched fist. Her inner walls clenched too, at first in a spasming sort of sequence and then in a long tug, like she was trying to milk the sensation Alfred lent to her. His thrusting slowed, though he was careful not to give in to the pulling at his fingers. No matter how her body protested, he made sure to draw out fully before pushing back in, working her through her release.

Jane let out a high keening sound, the bathroom filling with her voice as she unfurled under the man’s attention.

After a few moments, the only sound they could hear was her panting. 

The water had chilled by now. That, plus the fatigue that was settling over Jane’s body, now made it so that she was actually cold. Jane lolled her head against Alfred’s shoulder and noticed how he kept his arm around her, fingers stroking along her shoulder. 

It was the safest she’d felt with him ever, maybe, she thought. It had the warmth of their afternoon in the garden with all the earnestness of their visit today.

He removed his other hand from between her legs and waved his fingers around in the water, her slick melting off of him.

“Then,” he said after a few moments, his mouth turned into a deep frown. 

“Let me go get something else for you to change in. The Red Room must’ve just opened for the evening, and they’ve got a strict dress code.”


	30. Chapter 30

Jane had managed to step out of the tub and had wrapped herself in a towel by the time Alfred returned from – well, wherever he’d disappeared to for the past couple of minutes. 

When he finally reappeared, he had something large, puffy, and a deep red in his arms.

“I’ve got a dress for you to wear,” Alfred said, his eyes sliding over Jane. 

Whether his mind was slipping the towel off or pulling the dress on, she couldn’t decide. 

Her hair was still bunched on top of her head, a few loose curls falling around her face. The towel barely covered her breasts and just reached the tops of her thighs. She was dripping in the middle of his room, droplets hitting the wood floor with a delicate tap -- physics in deliberation.

“It might be a little warmer than the way you are now.”

“Just a little?”

It wasn’t until she actually went to put on the dress Alfred had found for her that she realized ‘little’ was right.

While more decadent than the lovely gowns she usually wore, the fabric hung off her shoulders, which kept a lingering chill hanging over her like a veil. 

The corset was meant to be seen and was only half-laced as it sheathed her waist, enough to _boost_ her assets but not enough to keep them _in._

“Where did you even get a dress like this?” Jane mused, surveying herself the best she could without a mirror.

“My neighbor.”

“Who would ever find an occasion to wear something like this?”

“ _You_ found an occasion to wear it.”

“But we’re going—”

Jane caught Alfred’s eye and knew he was warning her not to inquire too deeply about that nature of his neighbor’s work. 

“Well, in any case, I suppose I’ll blend better than I would’ve in the dress I came here in.”

“To be certain. People who slink around at night don’t drink much coffee, I’d say.”

Jane laughed.

“Then, how do we get in? Do you have an invitation?”

She turned to watch him as he went to his dresser and tied his necktie. 

She thought he looked rather handsome like that. 

“No, I don’t normally wait for invitations from places I give my business to.”

“You mean you can just _walk_ in?”

When he didn’t answer, she went to him as if her proximity would press an answer from him.

“Well, we’re not _flying_.” He finished with his cravat and went to shrug on his frock. “You’re thinking about the wrong things. You _should_ be thinking about how you’re going to keep out of trouble and what you’re hoping to find there.”

“Answers,” said Jane simply. “Just like you.”

Alfred raised an eyebrow at her.

“Fair, but ‘question’ isn’t a question in itself, is it? What specifically are you trying to find, and who would best help you find it?” 

Jane thought about that but didn’t have an answer. Of course, she wanted to know where the girls had gone. 

So long as they were talking about the things they wanted, and not just the things that would happen, she wanted to bring the girls home, alive and well, and for the mass graves to have been a terrible, terrible misunderstanding. Those were answers that felt fixed by questions too big for anyone to answer, and while there were smaller questions that could build up to them, she didn’t quite have the resolution of mind to see them. 

Alfred offered her his arm.

“Then, are you ready?”

-

At the Red Room, Jane felt her former ambition shrivel and die in her. 

The establishment was tucked neatly in between where the undertaker lived and a pawn shop, something that Jane couldn’t help but notice as Alfred tugged the door open and let them in.

They stepped in where the dwindling remnants of daylight were entirely extinguished by the smoky, suffocating dark of the Red Room.

Jane skulked behind Alfred, sticking close enough that if he stalled in even one single step, she’d have faceplanted into his back.

Her skirt was so long she had to gather it as she went. In getting stuck doing this, she fell behind Alfred. This gave one of the women who worked there the opportunity to swoop in and grab her hard by the elbow.

“Are you new or something?”

The pinched grip startled Jane, both from how it stung and in its suddenness.

“I beg your pardon?”

“We opened almost an hour ago. You’re late.” Her eyes, ringed with black, glared hard at her. “Mr. F will hear about this later – for now, you ought to get to the backroom.”

“Madam, you’re mistaken; I don’t work here.”

Jane tried to sound calm, matter-of-fact. Like she’d seen Alfred with Francis. Instead, her words came out trembling, like her legs.

The woman laughed. 

“Nice try, new girl. We’re not so thick in the head here, though. You’ll have to be sharper than that to slip by, meandering in with the wind without a care in the world.”

Jane tried to pull her arm away from the woman, but with each failed tug, she seemed to dig in fiercer to her skin, like talons.

“Excuse me, Miss.” Alfred’s voice, cool and placating, came. Even in the dim lighting, Jane thought she found his dimples in the dark. “My companion seems to have separated from me. I apologize if she’s caused you trouble.”

The woman looked, wide-eyed, from Alfred to Jane and then back before she dropped Jane as if she’d burned her to the touch.

“My Goodness, I’m terribly sorry.” She dipped into a deep curtsy. “I truly hadn’t thought—” She sent another wide-eyed look to Jane and curtsied to her too. “Goodness,” she said again. “What’s gotten into me? I didn’t—”

“It’s quite okay,” Alfred smiled, and Jane knew that the other woman must’ve felt a little better at that. “Truly, Miss, an honest mistake. My lady and I—” he looped his arm with Jane’s as he said this “—separated, trying to find a table. You’re quite popular tonight!”

The woman’s rouged cheeks flushed darker, a panicked sort of inspiration taking her over.

“A table, you say? But, of course! Follow me, I’ve got just the place for you!”

At once, she seemed to bullet through the crowd, pushing through them with surprising might for a woman of her stature. Her skirts thrashed in her haste, leaving Jane scrambling to catch up.

“Really, it’s alright, you don’t have to—”

Alfred shot Jane a glare, and the woman seemed not to hear her.

Around her, faces blurred by; Alfred was right; it was packed. As far as they could see, every table seemed to be filled with men, laughing, leering, smoking, playing cards, drinking. And even then, there were the women tending to them, their big skirts almost too much for the narrow paths winding between tables. On the stage, scantily-dressed women teased and flashed, waving their skirts like flags, using the dark to cover where clothing melted away from their forms.

Every spot at the bar was filled with a wall of dark coats and white shirts, flat backs, and broad shoulders. 

The further they tunneled into the establishment, Jane was surprised to see that she was not, in fact, the only _non-entertaining_ woman there. Pushed against the walls, forgotten by their husbands at the tables, indulging in their debauchery, the wives stared with shrewd, beetle-like eyes, hoping that the knowledge of their presence might deter their husbands from misbehaving. 

Alas, it did no such thing. The wives’ eyes fell on the chairbacks and relented quickly to the meager defense. 

Their eyes either didn’t catch, or they pretended not to notice the women hiding under tables, keeping other’s husbands, fathers, brothers on a much tighter leash than they did.

Those who simply didn’t care what their wives thought just went ahead to take the women in their laps. 

At last, Jane and Alfred were brought to a table in the corner, where they stopped a few feet away as the woman turned back to them – correction; back to Alfred.

“Just a moment, please.”

Jane watched as she went to the table, where a couple of men sat, looking almost a bit more like boys the longer she stared. The woman said something to them, and all three at the table seemed put out. The woman spoke again, her hands going to rest at her hips as if to assert that whatever she was saying wasn’t optional.

After a little more arguing, the boy-men seemed to relent, and they got up to leave. Jane shrank further into Alfred’s back, feeling like a small child playing dress up as the former patrons filed between the tables and past her to leave.

She gestured for Alfred to go to the table with another gracious curtsy, and then both Alfred and Jane went to take their seats.

“Thank you, Miss.”

Jane watched as he slipped something from his pocket into her hands. 

Coin? She knew better than to ask him about it.

They sat there for a few moments, saying nothing. When Jane looked at Alfred, he looked focused on something, his eyes raised to the stage area, sweeping around the room.

For a moment, she thought it must’ve been the women, and then she foolishly remembered that they were here on a job. He was watching the women but not _just_ the women.

Jane felt she should be observing too, wanting to be able to catch what he’d been missing or waiting for the past few nights he’d been at the Red Room.

Countless skirts swept by though and sometimes less than that, and still, she didn’t quite know what she was looking for.

Jane nudged him under the table with her foot.

“What?” His voice was sharp. 

“Tell me what I should be looking for.”

Alfred’s eyes never broke their silent surveillance. 

“You decided to start investigating, but you don’t even know what you’re trying to find?”

“I _know_ ,” said Jane, a little indignantly. “I just haven’t the faintest what it looks like.”

Alfred didn’t answer. After a few moments, she concluded that he’d decided that she should be figuring it out for herself. Alfred had said it himself; he wasn’t sure he could keep her safe. By that same nature, he couldn’t hold her hand every step of the way – he wasn’t her governess, after all.

Jane sat there, looking around, taking in the seedy dark, and stealing curious glances at women who seemed like they had lifetimes of experience both with others’ bodies and their own.

Despite how… _busy_ she’d been the past few days, Jane suddenly felt rather clumsy.

The longer she sat there, the more she felt like the only thing she could pick out was her own massive incompetence. She wasn’t like those women – deadly without sacrificing their charms, desired without tamping their wiles down. She wasn’t like Alfred either, as much as she’d wanted to be. In light of all that had happened, she lacked his rogueish intelligence and quick hand with people.

Where did that leave her then, with the rest of the seedy riffraff in here? 

One of them was potentially a criminal; she certainly hoped she wasn’t like them.

Of course, depending on who one asked, she was already on her way to hell. 

These thoughts, which she thought were formerly and rather easily driven away by Francis’ touches, flourished here in the deep dark, weighing on her chest like an anvil.

The bar room was ample in itself, though when pressed with this many people, they suddenly felt like the walls were drawing inward. Something squeezed in her chest, and it drove Jane straight onto her feet.

“I’ll go and get us a drink, shall I?”

Alfred broke his concentration only to reach into the same pocket he had before and procured a couple of coins. He dropped them on the table and pushed them closer to her.

“Here, use these.” 

Jane turned to head towards the bar, already mentally marking out her path between the close-set tables. A tug at her hand stopped her before she left. She looked down first to see a more substantial, finely-edged hand in her own and then back at Alfred, who owned such a hand. 

“Don’t go far,” he said firmly, his eyes wide with an insistent warning.

“The bar’s just there. I shouldn’t think I’d have anywhere else to go.”

“Jane—”

“Yes, yes, I know. I won’t go far, okay?”

Alfred gave her another look before finally surrendering her hand.

Jane began picking her way between the tables, her thoughtfulness from just a few moments prior paying off. She weaved skillfully between patrons, drunk and sober, even with her full-bodied skirt pulling her back. 

When she broke free of the seating area’s density and only had to close the short distance to the bar to get the barkeep’s attention, a shadowy body sidled into her line of sight too late. It made impact that would’ve sent her sprawling to the floor if said body hadn’t reached out to grip her hard by the wrist, perhaps bruising her skin but sparing her the embarrassment of being known as a graceless woman.

“Oh, pardon me,” Jane turned to reclaim her wrist and dip into a deep, apologetic curtsy.

The man who’d caught her watched her, his eyes following her as she lowered herself, dropping briefly from her face to her bosom and then moving back again. At once, Jane felt strange in front of that man, his smile cordial to an unknowing eye but predatory to her own.

His face was lightly lined – he must’ve been only a few years older than Francis, and his hair, appearing jet black in the dark room, was shot with silver, like he’d spent the night floating in a lake of moonlight.

He bowed deeply, his firm-set brow leaving Jane with the impression that she was fortunate, even if he were apologizing for running into her.

“Think nothing of it, Miss. I’m only grateful that I could prevent you from taking a spill, fine creature that you are.”

His eyes slipped over her again, and she had to hold back a deep shudder; being in his company felt like someone had dumped ice water over her. 

She curtsied one last time.

“Ah, yes, I’m grateful for your…gallantry. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my chaperone will be waiting.”

The man laughed, though the volume was muted by the bustle and rowdiness of the establishment.

“A chaperone? Here? Goodness, you must be more precious merchandise than I thought, to be so closely guarded.”

Jane smiled politely. 

“You flatter me, Sir, and now I must bid you goodbye.”

He nodded, not seeming a bit bothered by her hasty retreat.

“Of course – I shouldn’t keep you. Go, and maybe fate will have us meet again someday.”

Jane turned back to the table, forgetting drinks entirely. _I should think not._

Her return to the table wasn’t half as tactful as her departure from it. 

Her shoulders bumped bodies, and her hips moved chairs. Any bitter words hurled her way were wicked away in her haste, dissolving into the unintelligible drone of the room’s general noisiness.

When finally, she reached their corner again, she couldn’t stop the words, their panicked onslaught fueled by the rabbity thumping of her heart.

“Alfred, I—”

She broke off. Alfred didn’t even look up at her. He was too busy glowering at the man across the table from him – a new addition. 

Jane took a step back, weary at the prospects of another stranger in this establishment.

“Jane, I don’t believe you’ve met my…associate here.”

Jane hadn’t realized she’d taken to holding her breath until she let it out.

“Associate? Then, a friend of yours?”

“I wouldn’t call it that.”

The other man turned to her and gave her a wry smile. Jane was startled; she’d never seen that expression on Alfred’s face before.

Only, it wasn’t Alfred’s face. However, it was a rather close impersonation – handsome and fine-boned. The blue in this man’s eyes was less August-sky and more September-twilight. He was dressed smartly – more so than Alfred was, and his hair was a little longer too, tied back as Francis’ tied his back, the same murky blonde as Alfred’s, though with a bit more curl.

“Oh, I—”

“Matthew, this is Jane. Jane, this is—”

The man stood and gave her a polite smile. Jane allowed him to take her hand and bow.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m Matthew Williams.”

Jane dipped into a curtsy; she felt like she lived at her knees tonight.

“And I, yours.”

Alfred looked to her empty hands.

“What happened to drinks?”

At the question, Jane remembered why she’d retreated back to the table empty-handed.

“Ah, right, I—” Jane hesitated. The man had felt off, sure, but so did a lot of things here at the Red Room tonight. 

The name itself was enough to make her stomach flip. She couldn’t keep running away at each shadow that loomed outside the cushy gates of her sheltered life. 

If she’d been more familiar with this unsavory underbelly in her past, her memory loss protected her from this. Meanwhile, Francis had tried to protect her from the rest – at what point was she finally to open her eyes and see the world for what it was?

Alfred was still waiting for the answer.

“I forgot,” she finished lamely. “Sorry – I don’t know what got into me. Of course, now that Mr. Williams has joined us, all the more reason for me to go and get him one as well.” 

She turned to their new guest.

“What’ll you have?”

Alfred’s mouth twitched – it was his money, after all.

Mr. Williams chuckled.

“Think nothing of it, Miss Doe. I’ll go and get a round for all of us. It’s the least I can do considering my intrusion.”

This man not only looked like Alfred but held all his etiquette and charms from the night she’d met him too. Jane couldn’t help but remark on this.

“Goodness, you are quite the gentleman, Mr. Williams. Mrs. Williams is a fortunate lady.”

She could feel Alfred’s eyes burning a hole in her as she flattered their new companion. The unsettledness from earlier ebbed away; truth be told, she relished his attention, heated as it may have been.

Mr. Williams smiled, his eyes crinkling in the corners. He had the same boyish dimples Alfred had.

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken in that there’s no Mrs. Williams.”

“ _Currently_ ,” Alfred interjected dryly. “There’s no ‘Mrs. Williams’ _currently_ – which is surprising as there’s never been a shortage of ladies to fill the role before.”

Mr. Williams’ kind expression cracked so he could shoot Alfred a dirty look. 

Though she’d seen Alfred insult someone in her company before, Jane was confused at what he must’ve been implying.

That Mr. Williams had been married before, to be sure, but to several women? To be married more than once was rare – divorce was a dirty word she herself had rarely spoken, let alone thought of very much. Very few people had gone through the process themselves.

She turned to Mr. Williams, her curiosity overpowering the confines of what polite society would’ve considered her right to know.

“Whatever could he mean?”


	31. Chapter 31

Mr. Williams looked like he wanted to have words with Alfred.

In turn, Alfred gave his head a little shake and leaned heavily on the table.

“Never mind that, and never mind drinks either. The important thing is that, Jane, you and Mr. Williams are looking for the same thing, I think.”

Jane and Mr. Williams looked at each other before Mr. Williams turned to Alfred, his expression all business now.

“Then, have you found something new? I figured it strange that you had included someone else in the investigation.”

Alfred shook his head.

“I have no new leads yet. Jane’s here because…” 

His eyes darted to hers in the dark, trailing down from her face to skim over the marks he’d left at her throat and those spotting over her breasts to disappear beneath the low neck of her dress. 

“…she can be rather persuasive. She also has some stakes in this investigation, and so I think her eyes might pick up something you and I missed.”

Mr. Williams turned towards Jane again, the courtesy on his face replaced by a more invested interest. For a moment, Jane thought he was going to ask about her involvement in the case.

“Then, I’m fortunate that you’ve joined our little team here, Miss Doe. 

I do so hope that we get this matter resolved quickly, for both of our sakes.” He paused as if deliberating on how much of his own case to include her in. 

“You see, I’m looking for someone close to me. Someone who’s gone.”

Jane nodded; she was looking for herself, who was also gone, only, she’d sort of gone with. So really, she supposed she was looking for what – or who – she’d left behind.

“It’s similar for me, as well.”

“I’m sorry then. About your missing loved one.”

His voice was soft. Jane was surprised she could hear it still. She smiled at Mr. Williams.

“Thank you. I’m sorry about yours too.”

Across the table from the both of them, Alfred stiffened suddenly, like a dog who’d caught a scent.

“Matthew, did you know they were here tonight?”

Jane had no idea who Alfred was referring to. It seemed Mr. Williams didn’t either. That is until he turned around to look in the direction Alfred was looking, leaning so that his vision wasn’t obstructed by the heads of other patrons.

“Oh, those guys again? No, I hadn’t noticed.”

“Who are you speaking of?” asked Jane. “Is it a lead?”

Mr. Williams guided Jane, moving to her eye level and then pointing out the table Alfred spoke of.

It was difficult for her to make out who it was at first, or even if she should recognize the men at the table. The shock came when she _did_ , in fact, recognize them, though. Two of the three, at least.

“Is that—”

“Arthur Kirkland, Lukas Bondevik, and Vladimir Ardelean.”

She hadn’t realized Arthur had come to town today too. She thought of Angelica – who was with her? Charlotte was no governess, after all. Arthur hadn’t seemed like the type to leave his daughter and come out to crawls like this; she supposed she didn’t know him all that well, though.

And Mr. Bondevik was here too? 

She hadn’t pegged him as the sort to come to places like this either, but again, there seemed to be an increasing list of things she didn’t know about in the valley.

Alfred looked like a loaded gun, his body taut like he was ready at any moment to leap to his feet and lean into chasing the men down. Although, they didn’t look like they were doing anything criminal.

Jane watched them for a while. They looked like they were playing cards and drinking. Occasionally Lukas would look up to the stage as if checking to see what the ladies up there were doing, but then his attention would quickly turn back to his cards.

“Are we going to go and talk to them?”

“No – but we should be ready to go in case they leave soon.”

Jane watched the rest of the crowd, starting to pick up repetitive characteristics in the dark. The same leering faces she’d first seen upon coming in were starting to make her double-take like she was finding familiarity in the dark shapes. 

The room, once so big, now felt relatively small. Did everyone in the valley come here? How could Jane be sure that others she knew didn’t frequent here when she’d found two individuals she knew the first odd night she walked in?

And if anyone could come here, that meant anyone could be the culprit, right?

She thought she saw Feliciano’s face by the bar at one point, but she couldn’t be sure.

However, she was confident about seeing the strange man from earlier, leaving with a woman on his arm. The lady clutched onto him like he was keeping her afloat.

That probably wasn’t so far from the truth. It was strange, Jane thought, to contextualize intimacy with need rather than desire, desperation rather than yearning.

She watched as he opened the front door, the little bell’s ring disappearing into the rowdy club. 

Jane’s stomach flipped as she watched him usher the woman outside.

“Wait,” she said though she knew she didn’t have the time. 

Her heart thudded in her chest, and she leaped to her feet.

“Jane?” 

Alfred’s and Mr. Williams’ eyes snapped to her.

“What is it?”

Jane took off running towards the door without answering them. This time, her path through the tables was like a comet ripping through space. She paid little attention to the bodies or chairs she clashed with as she fought to make it to the door. Angry voices filtered straight through her head as she put distance between her and disturbed patrons at a surprising speed.

Finally, she made it to the front door and wrenched it open. She threw herself outside, tripping over her skirts as the cold night air hit her. She steeled herself against any shiver that dared disturb her concentration and looked to the left first, then the right.

There was no sign of the man or his lady companion.

The door opened behind her and out scrambled Mr. Williams, his eyes looking as wild and frantic as she felt.

“Jane, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“The man—” she turned to Mr. Williams. “The man that just left here with a woman, I—” She stopped. 

She what? 

Had a weird feeling? Thought he was creepy? Being an unsavory sort of person wasn’t technically a crime. At least not as Jane had seen with the man so far.

“What? Did you know him? Did you find something?”

“I…no.” She was breathing hard, her frustration welling inside of her like it threatened to choke her. Her chest rose and fell as she struggled to get herself together. Each breath she took in was icy and scraped against her lungs like broken glass. “It was just a gut feeling. I’m sorry.”

Mr. Williams looked disappointed but said nothing. He just crossed his arms over his chest and glanced up and down the street, as Jane had. His breath came out in white smoke.

“Where’s Alfred?”

“He decided to stay behind and watch Kirkland and friends.”

Jane’s arms came up around herself, her skin icy where she touched. She shouldn’t have left behind her cloak.

The night felt empty like this, the world so dark and void of sound and color that it felt like people could just fall up and disappear into the cosmos. She wondered if young girls went missing there, and if not, if perhaps it wouldn’t be a better place to be.

“You looking for a gentleman? Older and with a woman, you say?”

A voice came out from the dark, making both Jane’s and Mr. William’s shoulders jump. Jane whirled around to face it and saw that the street had not been as empty as she and Mr. Williams had initially thought.

With lank blonde hair that hung to about his chin, a man was smoking, leaning up against the outside of the Red Room. His face was grimy, and she could see that his gloves and coat were worn through in several places, though his green eyes were bright and fierce. 

Nobody would’ve dared pity him so long as they saw those.

“Yes,” said Jane, taking a few steps closer. Mr. Williams followed, as if at the ready to yank her back should the man try anything funny. “Do you know him? Did you see which way he went?”

The man was smoking. He let out a puff, only a little darker than the smoke from their breath.

“I saw him. If you want the information, though, you need to pay.”

Jane’s stomach flipped, her impatience and desperation mingling poisonously in her churning gut.

Her hand went down to the coins in her pockets. She still had Alfred’s drink money. She fished it out and held it out for him.

“Here.”

The man lolled a green eye down to the modest handful of coins she held out to him, unimpressed.

“Jane,” Mr. Williams said softly.

She ignored him. 

The other man took the coins from Jane and rattled them around in his palm like dice.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it,” said Jane in a shaky voice. “Now, where did the man go?”

For a moment, she was afraid he wasn’t going to tell them anything but then, the man let out a little sigh and pocketed the money.

“He and his lady took a private coach,” he jerked his head down the right way of the street. It was the same route Jane and Francis would’ve taken had their coach been leaving. 

“Down that way.”

“And?”

The man raised his eyebrows.

“That’s it.”

“What do you _mean_ , that’s it?”

“Exactly that. That’s all I saw, and you get what you paid for.”

“That’s hardly information at all!”

“Well, that’s what I’ve got, so shoo.”

Jane’s brow raised. She wasn’t used to being spoken to in such a manner.

“I think I’ll not leave until I get my coin back, _sir_.”

The man looked her up and down.

“Then you’ll freeze to death out here, by the looks of it.”

Jane stretched an expectant hand out.

“Return our coin to us at once!”

“Have you lost it? I’ll do no such thing.”

“I demand it!”

“Oh, do you? Do you _demand_ it?” The man let out a harsh laugh. “Piss off, Princess.”

Mr. Williams leveled a stern glare at the other man, but it was Jane’s elbow he nudged.

“He’s not worth it, Jane. We ought to go. Maybe Alfred’s found something.”

She looked up at Mr. Williams disbelievingly. He was just going to _let_ them get robbed like that?

Damn it! Everywhere she turned, there seemed to be some gatekeeper trying to withhold information. 

And how easy it was for them to act all smug and righteous about it when it wasn’t their likeness being captured, their bodies biopsied on paper. Jane looked this man up and down. He appeared to be wearing several layers, but she bet beneath those layers was the stocky, work-tempered stature most men in the town had, and some of the women as well. She could hardly imagine this gentleman fearing being snatched and winding up in a mass grave.

The heat inside of her flared. This time, the intensity of it drove her forward before she even realized what was happening.

“ _Jane!_ ”

Mr. William’s voice sounded shocked as Jane hurled herself at the other man, her fists battering his chest. The man caught her, trying to restrain the flurry of punches she laid into him. He made no attempt to raise a hand against her in response.

“ _You dirty bastard! Swindling us out of our money knowing full well you didn’t know any more than the next thick-skulled, drunkard who_ —”

Mr. Williams’ hands found Jane’s waist, trying to pull her off the other man, and still, there was no such luck. Jane had appeared to sink her teeth into the issue, like a dog that had caught the scent of blood. Oh, she should’ve been so lucky.

“ _You foul, urchin of a man! You low down_ —”

“Jane! _Mon Dieu_ , what’s going on here?”

A new voice joined the mix, and it was one that Jane knew well. However, she didn’t actually notice Francis had rejoined them until he was successfully pulling her off the other man.

Both the man and Jane were glaring at each other, chests heaving as they struggled to catch their breaths in such a thin, abrasive climate. 

Francis was looking between the two, bewildered.

“What happened?” he asked. “I leave you alone with Mr. Jones for two hours and—” he startled as he noticed Mr. Williams to his left instead of Mr. Jones, “—and I not only return to find you _assaulting_ a man, but you’ve replaced Mr. Jones too!”

“You should control your woman! She’s a menace and over just a few coins too!” the first man barked.

“That’s because he lied! He said he had information, and he didn’t! He wouldn’t return the money either; he’s a con!”

Francis took a deep breath, one hand reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Jane, whatever do you need a few coins for?” Francis gave the other man a once over. “Let it be, _ma chère_.” 

“The money’s not the point,” Jane protested. “He _lied_.”

“And you _hit_ me! Good God, you’re more wolverine than lady, regardless of whose bed you--”

Jane lunged for him again. Both Francis and Mr. Williams successfully prevented her from sinking her fists into the other man’s face.

Francis stepped in front of Jane, forcing her firmly behind him, and smiled placatingly at the man.

“ _Monsieur_ — _ah_ —what’s your name?”

“Zwingli. Basch Zwingli.”

His arms were folded tightly across his chest as he glowered at Francis.

“Then— _Monsieur_ Zwingli, please accept my most humble apologies for the actions of my companion. Please keep the coin; we’ll not bother you anymore tonight.”

Francis bowed politely.

“Hmph! I should hope not. You know, all you rich bastards are the same – you go around, pissing away your money like water, spitting at those of us not born with a silver spoon in our mouths.”

Jane looked like she was going to hiss at the man from behind Francis, but Mr. Zwingli never backed down. He leveled a hard stare at her.

“Not all of us can be kept so easily! Some of us still have bills to pay even if this shithole town decided to shut its mine down. Some of us have family to send for!”

Francis ignored Mr. Zwingli and pulled Jane aside. His blue eyes were sharp. Jane suddenly felt like things were unsettled between them again, but she could hardly think of why. Francis’ hands were hard at the sides of Jane’s arms as if to make sure she was grounded in front of him. He opened his mouth to say something and then closed it suddenly. His gaze slipping down over her, lingering at the red marks peppering her neck and cleavage, disappearing under her dress, and then to the dress itself.

“What are you wearing? What happened to your clothes? And are those--?”

Francis grimaced. He had seen many of those marks before and was exceptionally gifted at leaving them himself.

“Where’s Mr. Jones?” he asked sharply.

“Inside. Mr. Jones is watching Mr—He’s watching a potential lead.”

“And he left you outside? I don’t—” he sighed heavily. “Why didn’t you come and find me?” His voice sounded a little exasperated now. “And for God’s sake, where’s your cloak? You’ll catch your death out here.”

He rubbed up and down her arms as if trying to inspire her skin to warm.

“Never mind. Let’s get you home; we can talk more there. Mihail should be coming this way with the coach.”

Francis shrugged out of his own cloak and draped it around Jane. 

It was evident when he turned to leave that he expected her to follow. The clicking of horses’ hooves told Jane that the carriage was near and she went to the side of the street to wait for it. Francis paused before joining her, looking back towards Mr. Zwingli.

“Was it work you said you needed, sir?”

-

The ride back to Yeatlor was silent, with Mr. Zwingli sitting opposite her and Francis. Mr. Zwingli’s body was taut and hunched, the dark of night and pale moonlight spilling in such a way that rendered his features gargoyl-esque.

Francis, though in the seat next to her, might as well have been oceans away. He leaned up against his side, his elbow perched at the window sill, chin resting in his hand as he stared thoughtfully through the glass. His other hand was resting over his waist. 

Jane wanted more than anything to take it, but she hadn’t the courage. She sought her comfort from his cloak in a sort of phantom affection.

Back at Yeatlor, Mihail and Charlotte took their cloaks and were sent to prepare another room. The house was quiet, with Angelica asleep and Mr. Kirkland, of course, out.

Francis ushered both Jane and Mr. Zwingli into his study.

She was reminded of being in here the night before. Her nerves had been just as frazzled then, like lightning in her veins. She drew close to the fire, fearing its light but needing its heat. Francis ignored her and turned to Mr. Zwingli, who lingered by the door, though he’d shut it behind him.

This made sense, Jane thought. Francis, the deepest inside the room; his space, his to take up. 

Mr. Zwingli struck her as the sort of man who always liked to have a means of escape – by the door suited him well, not to mention, Jane hoped to see him walk through it quite soon.

“Now, Mr. Zwingli – you said you lost your job, is that correct?”

“It is.” His jaw was tight as he answered. “I worked in the Dahlia Mine before it was shut down.”

“I see. My condolences then, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bonnefoy.”

Mr. Zwingli sounded as if he almost choked over the words.

“Now, then,” Francis continued. “You mentioned a family to send for, as well.”

“Yes. My sister. I send money back to her but plan on bringing her here to live with me as soon as I have my own home.”

“Where does she stay?”

“To the north, in Salthear.”

Francis nodded and went to his desk. He placed the spectacles there on his nose and grabbed a quill to scrawl something down quick.

“What’s her name, and with whom is she staying?”

“Her name is Erika, and she stays at the Daydream Inn under the supervision of the lady there, Mathilde.”

Francis’ hand moved, and for a few moments, the only sounds were that of the fire crackling and the quill scratching against parchment.

“I’ll send Mathilde payments for Erika’s room and board until you can afford to bring her over then.”

“I don’t want your charity.”

Mr. Zwingli’s arms were crossed again as he glared at Francis. 

Jane got the feeling that most wilted under the intensity of Mr. Zwingli’s sour puss; Francis didn’t wilt for anything, though, like a flower in an eternal spring.

He adjusted his glasses on his face and looked up at Mr. Zwingli.

“It’s not charity. You start work tomorrow. You should save your wages for a house though – homes in this-- _ah_ , ‘shithole,’ as you so lovingly called it, are expensive.” 

Both Jane’s and Mr. Zwingli’s eyebrows rose in their shock – the only thing they’d shared all evening.

“A job? Doing what? I—”

Francis sighed and removed his glasses only to run a hand over his face.

“Forget it for now. We can discuss the details more fully tomorrow.”

“But I–”

There was a curt knock at the door. Mihail was waiting, holding a candle and looking to Francis expectantly.

“Perfect timing. Mihail, please show Mr. Zwingli to his room.”

“Yessir.”

“Mr. Bonnefoy—”

Francis waved the other man quiet, which was only done so easily because he was already fairly close to being speechless in the first place.

“Tomorrow. I promise. For now, good night.”


	32. Chapter 32

Jane noticed that Francis had specifically said ‘his’ room and not the servant’s quarters. 

It was most curious indeed that Mr. Zwingli would be getting his own room. However, she hardly had a moment to linger on this because then Francis had turned his attention to her.

“A lot seems to have transpired this evening,” Francis said, rising at his desk. 

He’d shrugged off his frock and was left in just his white shirt, which dipped low enough to give Jane a glimpse of the wiry blonde hair at his chest.

She knew he wanted to ask her about what had happened at Alfred’s. 

However, she also knew that he only wanted to ask to hear her say it herself – really, he already _knew_. 

Jane wanted nothing more than to go to the safety of his arms, but it seemed like neither of them would be getting what they wanted this evening. 

Jane cleared her throat.

“In the Red Room, we seemed to come across two possible leads. The first was what I was trying to pursue through Mr. Zwingli – that’s how you found me.”

Francis’ face was impassive.

“And the second?”

Jane hesitated.

The second was Alfred’s ‘lead.’ As far as she knew, there was little basis for it, save for the fact that Mr. Kirkland, Mr. Bondevik, and Mr. Ardelean went to the Red Room. 

By that logic, about a hundred other people could’ve been suspects as well. 

Still, she hadn’t forgotten what Alfred had mentioned back at the inn regarding Francis and Mr. Kirkland’s history. Even if it was precisely that -- _history_ , she didn’t think she’d like to know where he was galivanting off to in Francis’ position. Especially after Francis had taken him in and when Arthur had left his daughter behind to go to such a place.

“Jane, what was the second lead?”

“It’s Mr. Jones’. I don’t know much about it, but there are a few gentlemen he sees regularly there, so he’s keeping a careful eye on them. Mr. Williams doesn’t seem to know much about that lead either.”

Surprisingly, this, and not Mr. Jones’ name, is what got a reaction out of Francis.

“Oh!” his eyebrows raised, and Jane was deeply relieved for the break in his serious expression, which scored deep lines in his handsome face. “I had forgotten – I did see Mr. Williams with you there. Then again, perhaps I shouldn’t be so surprised. These are strange circumstances, after all, and he is quite the man of intrigue.”

“Is he?”

Francis’ lips twitched upwards, and he came around the desk. 

Each step he took towards her seemed to set off a deep, aching want. Still, he did not touch her, and she was painfully aware of this.

“You mean you haven’t heard of Mrs. Williams? Or, any of them, for that matter?”

Alfred had seemed to be alluding to something similar back at the Red Room. Jane supposed that did sound a bit intriguing.

“I’ve only heard rumors that he may have been married several times. Is he—” Jane lowered her voice “— _divorced_ , then?”

Francis laughed.

“Oh, _ma chère,_ you’re so innocent.”

Jane’s cheeks burned. She hated when he talked down to her like that, though the use of his endearment for her left her feeling like she carried a moonbeam in her chest and the stars in her eyes.

“Now that you mention it, it makes perfect sense that Mr. Williams would be involved in this investigation. If what people say about him isn’t true, then he’d clear his name by finding some monster who preys on women.”

Jane’s stomach turned.

“And if they are?”

There was a note of silence. The fire danced in Francis’ blue eyes, mirrored twilights just for her.

“Then he gets off scot-free.”

Now the real implication of what Mr. Williams was accused of dawned on Jane. When she spoke again, her voice was terribly small.

“Then, they think he’s killed his…ex-wife?”

“Ex- _wives_ , Jane.” 

Jane had so many questions but no time to ask them before Francis corrected himself.

“Or, I suppose, he’s not thought to have killed all of them. Although, seven dead wives does seem awfully suspicious.”

“Seven? He looks younger than you!”

Francis shot her a sharp look.

“I’ll choose to ignore _that_. But, yes, seven wives. First was…Mary – poor thing was positively smitten for Mr. Williams, and he for her, but she was terribly shy. It’s said that her heart gave out on their wedding night.”

Jane’s eyes widened to saucers.

“He killed her? Just like that?”

Francis scoffed.

“How morbid it is, that scandalized little mind of yours. No – Mary… couldn’t take the, _ah_ , activities of the wedding night, so it’s said. Although, of course, you could consider that him killing her still, even if it isn’t the murder story most gossip-hungry vultures cling to.”

“Was it really so easy to tarnish his reputation?”

“Well, Anne’s death didn’t help. She was scrappy and a bit mouthy – she’d have fought men, I think, if anyone had let her,” Francis paused to laugh. 

“Yes, Anne was a little firebrand. Her body was found all black and blue. The autopsy revealed that she ultimately died from her appendix rupturing inside of her – presumably from whatever had battered her, to begin with. Then, there was Elizabeth, who just seemed to…stop breathing one day.”

Francis’ voice grew thoughtful, and he rubbed his jaw.

“That was a strange one – she choked without anyone touching her. It was like her body had completely forgotten how to breathe. That one was sad because it was so sudden. I think Arthur was actually around to see it. The doctor who examined Elizabeth’s body after said there was water in her lungs. He described it as ‘drowning on dry land.’”

“Water?”

Francis grimaced.

“She’d gone for a swim earlier, I suppose, in the lake where Mr. Williams had lived at the time. Even with Mr. William’s…record, nobody could blame him for her death.”

Another little quiet fell between Jane and Francis. It felt a bit like they were sitting vigil.

“What about the other ones?” Jane asked in a soft voice.

She took a seat in the chair opposite Francis and watched as the fire flickered across his features. Shadow puppets softened them and sharpened them in an endless ebb and pull, like the sea pushing and pulling to mold the shore.

“Sarah was next – she was found shot in the bathroom. That definitely added oil to flame, so to speak, as far as the rumors were concerned. And then, of course, Matthew kept marrying…After Sarah was Jane, who was struck by a carriage. Some people claim they heard Mr. Williams and Jane arguing that night, though Mr. Williams, of course, fervently denies this.”

A shiver ran up Jane’s spine, and she folded her arms around her frame, her body curling into itself a little. Francis shifted in his seat, watching her. For a moment, his eyes seemed to cut through the morose haze that seemed to hang over them, but when he spoke next, it was only to continue.

“Hannah was number six – struck by lightning if you believe that. Which leaves us with—”

“—wife number seven.”

“Mm. Susan. Her body was found just about seven months ago.”

“So recently?”

“She was dressed in furs and riddled with holes when they found her body in the woods. The official story is that she was mistaken for an animal by hunters.”

“But dressed in furs? I’ve rarely seen anyone except—” 

The stocky hunter from Mr. Wang’s shop flashed in her mind. What had his name been? Baker? Brown? Braginsky?

Francis caught her eye.

“Exactly.”

Jane sat in the chair, her fingers knotted in her lap. 

She had no idea – such an unfortunate string of deaths, many of which appeared to be accidents. Could someone truly just be so unfortunate? Jane wasn’t certain she was inclined to lean either way on the matter. Francis’ voice broke her train of thought.

“Anyway, enough of these scary stories. How do you think we should proceed?”

“Proceed?” she looked up at him, dazed.

“With the investigation?”

Tonight, even with all that had happened, she felt as if she’d barely taken a step forward. If anything, now her mind was cluttered with all these other strange odds and ends – Arthur at the Red Room, Mr. Williams and his trail of dead wives. 

While interesting and worth digging into in their own right, they told Jane nothing of the picture or the circumstances under which it was drawn. 

Of course, if the artist was closer than the village, perhaps she could try again to go and seek answers tomorrow.

“I’m not certain,” Jane told Francis. “I think we should take a few days to gather ourselves and consider our next move.”

Lying to him was surprisingly easy.

Francis gave a firm nod without skipping a beat.

“I agree.”

-

Despite the ‘Alfred-of-it-all’ hanging over them, it was easy enough to end up in Francis’ bed that night. While getting into bed was a silent occasion, in the safety of the dark, Jane barely had to count to ten before she felt Francis’ form slide closer to her beneath the blankets, one arm reaching to encircle her waist.

That would make her mission a little more difficult – still, she couldn’t help but savor his hold, his quiet reassurance that wherever they stood at the moment, it was still together. That even if Francis needed space, he always wanted her within reach.

Jane coveted the moments that slipped past them as she waited for Francis to fall asleep. She memorized the soft lull of his breathing and relaxed into his embrace, something that no doubt helped sell the illusion of her own slumber.

It felt like hours had passed, with no morning in sight, the night an endless ocean of shadows, where up was down, the room was the entire world, and where Jane became a thief.

Her heart was pounding in her chest as she peeled Francis’ arm off and let it rest easily on the mattress behind her as she slipped out of bed.

The rug was thick and disguised her footsteps. The room was cold, and Jane wrapped her arms around herself, trying to stifle the violent shiver that wracked her body as she transitioned to the hardwood floor, rolling onto the balls of her feet to mute the sound of her travel.

She left the safety of Francis’ bedroom and tossed into the pitch black of the hallway; Jane took a few moments to be disoriented. 

The overwhelming cold and dark swallowed her up and spit her out, gleaning direction as her eyes adjusted.

She started again, walking cautiously, fingers tracing the wall, feeling her way along like cats used their whiskers. The stairs were less treacherous than she might’ve thought otherwise.

Her body seemed to have memorized the stairs’ spacing; she took them easily and without a stutter, her fingers skimming the banister. 

Even this felt intrusive like she was leaving fingerprints. Like Mihail or Charlotte would awake the next day and know exactly where she’d been and what she’d done.

And what exactly was Jane doing? The notion that the drawing of her had stayed in Francis’ study was total speculation. For all she knew, he’d thrown the damned thing into the fire.

Still, she wouldn’t know for sure unless she checked.

She retraced her footsteps from the nights prior and made her way back to the study.

She couldn’t help but think of how much things had changed in two days. What a difference one dumb drawing could make. Of course, the picture didn’t make the past or what she did – whatever it was, that was. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder how different things would be if she hadn’t found it. 

Would she be fast asleep in Francis’ bed right now, her arms around him, her face in his chest? What would they pass the days doing if not digging for phantoms emerging from her foggy mind? Would their days have continued as normal with the occasional stolen kiss? Would she have lived naked in his bed?

God, she wished she would’ve shut her eyes when he’d shown her the picture. Sometimes, she wished Francis was a worse man, someone who would’ve kept the picture for himself.

Francis’ study was unlocked – a strange detail, Jane thought, though perhaps not too much, given how it was his estate and Francis did not live a guarded life. He opened his home and heart openly and gave almost everyone free access to both. In some ways, it would’ve made less sense if he’d locked it.

Jane kept lurking anyway, at least trying to pay the intimate space the respect of acknowledging that she wasn’t supposed to be there by herself.

The cozy room felt like it was miles long. She thought several nights had passed in one by the time she reached his desk. 

She tried the drawer – that too was unlocked. Her fingers descended on the interior greedily, searching for the expanse of curled artist’s parchment, but she found no such thing. It was only thick stacks of neatly cut documents; notes of payment, contracts, perhaps the deed to the estate, and a few personal notes. 

There was no picture, though; it would not have fit in the drawer with everything else and still have been able to evade her search. 

Jane tried the drawers along the sides of the desk doubtfully. 

Those were empty too.

She sat there in the dark for a few moments. What now? While the picture had never been concrete, she hadn’t given much thought to what she’d do if she came up empty-handed. 

Of course, she could make her lie to Francis from earlier, a not-lie. She could, in fact, sit with him, plan, perhaps even ask him where he’d put the picture and return to her original lead with their relationship still intact.

While this felt even more out of reach than the picture, she couldn’t deny that she saw no other way forward. Not to mention, the prospects of returning to Francis’ bed and enjoying it without the lingering gravity of any ulterior motives did seem like a much-earned reward.

Jane, enticed to her prize by the nothingness in her hands, shut the drawers and left the study. It was as if she’d never been there in the first place.

Again, she was retracing her steps, this time back up to Francis’ room. Her feet were muted against the wood floors, the chill hanging around her anxious to be dispelled by the weight of the blankets and the heat of Francis’ skin.

Back in the room, Jane went straight to the bed and sat on the side she’d taken, eager to burrow back into her lover’s unconscious embrace.

She paused, in the middle of swinging her feet up onto the bed, when her eyes, adjusted to the dark, found the nightstand. 

There were two, one on either side of the bed, each with one drawer. Rationally, Jane doubted the picture was there. If it wasn’t in his study, he’d probably thrown it out. 

The thought was like a leech, though; it had suckered onto her, and she wouldn’t be rid of it unless it was sated.

Jane, who hadn’t relaxed her weight into the mattress yet, rocked back out of bed, landing on the floor with cat-like quiet. 

Her fingers found the knob on the drawer, and Jane held her breath. She looked at Francis, who was snoring softly.

She pulled lightly on the handle. The way the metalwork tugged at the wood felt like a horse’s hoof knocking sharply at the back of her skull. She swore Francis could hear how her heart hammered as if that were made of wood too.

As she pulled the drawer out, the slide of wood against wood was like someone scraping stone at the window. She was certain Francis would wake.

Jane wormed her fingers into the drawer through the narrow opening she’d allowed. It was empty.

Thoroughly annoyed at the chafing volume of the drawer, she shut it as carefully as she could.

Creeping over to the other side was easy until she found herself crouching beside Francis’ form.

She thought she could make out his hair, laid out like silk piled over his pillow, beside him. God, what a beautiful man.

Jane put her hands on the knob and pulled the drawer. 

Francis stirred in his sleep, and she paused mid-pull. She looked expectantly to Francis, as if expecting him to be awake and already watching her, his eyes glowing like a cat’s in the dark as it had by the fire earlier, his disappointment like a sad, dying fire.

He turned over and let out a soft breath. Then, he was asleep once more, and the gentle snores started up again. Jane let out a breath that had threatened to tear her lungs like a threadbare cloth.

She pulled the drawer open just enough that she could fit her fingers in, like with the other nightstand. She hadn’t realized how much she’d expected the drawer to be empty until she reached in and felt the familiar curl of parchment.

She froze. Her blood turned to ice.

She held herself so taut she thought she felt sharp on the inside. Jagged. 

Like her bones could cut through her skin, fragile as paper. Like all her veins and arteries could skewer her from the inside out.

Francis continued to sleep soundly. Jane moved her fingers and felt the familiar tear by the corner, which was frayed, weathered from how it had been stored and the frequency with which it had changed hands.

Jane looked at Francis’ figure on the bed as she touched the picture. One of them wasn’t the slightest bit disturbed.

-

The next morning, Jane rose early, leaving Francis to his bed nest, though not without a light kiss to his temple, which made her want to kick herself.

Charlotte asked no questions as she helped her prepare for the day. She instructed her maid to dress her for an outing, and the coach was waiting for her by the time Jane left Yeatlor, the drawing rolled and tucked safely under her arm, obscured by her cloak.

She had sent no letter ahead of time. Hyacinth Chateau would have to forgive her for showing up unannounced and demanding an audience with one Kiku Honda.


	33. Chapter 33

The maid at Hyacinth escorted Jane straight to where Mr. Honda was, in his little attic studio.

On the way there, Jane saw no one else on the grand estate – it was better this way. More discrete, she thought, though she could hardly imagine anywhere feeling private in a house this big.

As the decorations petered out and the luster of the main entertaining areas dulled, Jane knew they were getting close. She followed the maid silently up the narrow stair-set leading to the attic, and at the low door, she knocked.

There were a few moments of silence and then a mild, "Yes?"

The door opened. Mr. Honda was dressed in the usual white shirt, a necktie loosely tied around his neck over his shirt's collar. It was evident he was putting the easel inside to use; his face's fair skin was streaked with dusky charcoal.

"You have a visitor, Mr. Honda."

He looked between Jane and the maid, his brow lifted in surprise, although he didn't seem put off at Jane's sudden visit.

"Yes, thank you, Jitunka."

The maid nodded and left. Then it was just the two of them. 

When Jane had stepped out of the coach at Hyacinth. Her rage had welled up with surprising freshness, like it had been twisting in her bloodstream, worming its way inside her like a basilisk for the past few days, only rearing its head and baring its fangs as her feet touched the grounds.

Now though, seeing him in the flesh, her ire evaporated on her tongue. 

A vicious fever was left, a brittle, dry heat that made her cheeks itch.

Mr. Honda, her friend. 

No, that couldn't be right. A friend wouldn't have concealed such a thing from her.

Mr. Honda set his utensils down on the ledge of the easel and grabbed a rag that was more stained with charcoal than he was. Jane watched him wipe his hands with it.

"Miss Doe, what a surprise. How are you?"

The innocuous little question revived her fury. She wanted to spit at him. Instead, she gritted her teeth and squeezed her hands, tense and release.

"I'm alright. And you?"

"Well, thank you."

A quiet fell between them. Jane studied Mr. Honda – he didn't seem nervous. And why should he? Mr. Honda had no idea what she knew. Still, he didn't seem to bear the gravity one hiding such depths would've struck her to have.

"Mr. Honda," Jane said suddenly. "Do you remember when we met?"

Mr. Honda looked taken aback.

"Of course – at the ball held here."

"Hm."

Jane strayed from her place in front of the door, making herself at home the way one did when they were owed a debt that money couldn't repay. She glanced over the drawings tacked on the walls. 

Who else had no idea where they'd ended up? 

"Then, Jane, is there something I can do for you?"

Her fingers rubbed over the drawing, still concealed in her cloak, and she turned around to face him.

"Yes, actually. You see, I've recently come across a…piece – a drawing, as it turns out, and while the style seems familiar, I can't quite put a name to who drew it."

Again, there was that surprise splashed across his face. How innocently he wore it too!

"Oh, is it well known?"

Jane gave him a wry smile.

"I have no doubt that you should be able to recognize it."

She unrolled the drawing slowly, as Francis had, holding it out towards Mr. Honda so he could see – and so she didn't have to.

Mr. Honda's eyes went wide, his face blanching. He took an unsteady step back as if someone had hit him, his hands raising like they had a hope of defending him from the truth of the piece.

"Jane, I—where did you _get_ that?"

"No," she said, her voice hoarse. "My questions first. You don't get to be confused, not when you so obviously had a hand in this – whatever _this_ is."

Mr. Honda took a step forward, and this time Jane stepped back. This didn't go unnoticed, and his mouth twitched downwards. Mr. Honda made a great effort to stay in one spot, feet planted firmly on the floor.

"Jane," he raised his hands, palms out like he was approaching a startled animal. "Believe me – please, I didn't think it was you. I only sort of remembered the piece and even with the obvious resemblance—"

Jane laughed harshly.

"Resemblance?" She shook the drawing as if for emphasis. "It's a carbon copy – only the best by Mr. Honda, though, isn't that right?"

" _You_ reacted as if you'd never seen me in your life. I figured I was mistaken!"

She felt a little tug in her gut; emotions aside, her instincts told her that the drawing was, in fact, done prior to her losing her memories. It had taken place in the 'before.'

She stared hard at him.

"Clearly, _I_ was the one who was mistaken."

Mr. Honda flinched as if she'd slapped him.

"You must tell me then – when did you draw this?"

"You don't remember?"

She didn't answer. She was afraid that if she opened her mouth, more of herself that she couldn't recognize would spill out, and again, Mr. Honda would be the lone witness.

"It was back at… _that_ place. That house that burned down in the village."

"The Red Room?" she asked sharply.

"Yes, I think so."

His voice was small, the movements of his fingers kept. Jane envied him with vitriol that threatened to make her violent.

" _Why_ did you draw this?" Jane jerked her head towards the chest full of drawings, pushed against the wall, where she'd looked her first time up here. "Was I one of _those_ girls?" 

Had she not teased him that day; _Perhaps you can draw me one day?_

Mr. Honda's cheeks pinkened a little, and now his gaze retreated to the floor. 

His fingers were fidgeting in front of him. 

"You…were. I was commissioned to draw you like that."

"By who?"

"I…I don't know." Mr. Honda looked back up at her, his face anxious. "Truly, I don't. The commissions were done anonymously – all I knew going in was that a gentleman wanted drawings done of the girls brought to me. You were one of them."

One of them from the Red Room. She was suddenly reminded of finding Natalya in the field with the flowers. 

Her dreams – the girls, the warnings, _her_. Jane's gut seemed to curdle in her. Out of instinct, Jane's hand raised to her belly, like she was going to be sick.

"Jane? A-are you alright?"

Mr. Honda started to reach for her but was stopped by the glare she sent him.

"Tell me more about this place."

"It…I don't know much more. I was met at the front door by a masked man, and they…covered my head. I wasn't allowed to see anything until I was alone in a room with my…subjects."

 _Subjects_. The word felt dirty like Mr. Honda hadn't been a spectator in what had happened but an active participant, pressing the women down under a microscope to peel back their every defense. They may have already been naked when they came to him, but he was still the one who stripped them bare.

"Yes, well, I've come to find that one of the girls who's gone missing might've formerly been one of your' subjects.'"

Mr. Honda looked as disgruntled as Jane had ever seen him, his face flushed, his brow deeply furrowed. How different this frantic man seemed compared to her mild-mannered friend.

" _What_?"

"I'm not the only one looking into this," said Jane, acidly. "One of the missing women 'worked' at the Red Room." 

"I know nothing about that, I swear. I thought it was a place for people to enjoy the usual vices; drinking, gambling, women. I didn't think it a place for _murder_ , Jane, believe me if I had known—" 

"You what? Would've told me like you did with the drawing?"

Jane let it drop to the grown. When it landed picture-up, she was careful to keep her eyes leveled high at Mr. Honda's face.

"Is this all you saw of me?"

Truthfully, it had been a leading question. The picture had left no doubt about that. Still, Mr. Honda's face went a bit strange.

"I saw everything," he said, his face reddening further as he looked down.

"I suppose you had to; you _drew_ everything."

"No, I mean…sometimes different people were brought into the room. The person who commissioned this seemed to be deciding between solo portraits and more... _active_ pieces, with more people. They sent a few people in to try you out with."

It took a few moments for Jane to understand his meaning. Now her brow furrowed, a whole new plethora of questions opening up.

"Other girls?"

Mr. Honda grimaced.

"Sometimes."

"Men?"

"Some."

"Do you have any of these sketches?" 

Jane and Mr. Honda looked to the chest at the same time. Then, the artist was lunging for it, blocking it with his body; no sooner had Jane turned fully to approach it.

"Mr. Honda, show me the pictures."

He sat firmly on the trunk, his face set.

"No. You already know. You don't need to see."

" _You_ don't need to keep them," she hissed. "Give them here, now."

Mr. Honda's face had gone cold.

"Jane, I—"

"What, seeing it all once wasn't enough?"

Heat sparked in his eyes.

"It's not that," he snapped.

Jane's own fury flared, mirroring the man's rising temper. How dare _he_ be cross with _her_. Her skin was on fire. She wanted to put her hands on him; she wanted to mark his body. She wanted an eye for an eye. To strip him bare and autopsy him alive like his art had done with her.

She surprised him by pulling the tie loose on her cloak and letting the material pool at the floor. Then, she stepped out of her shoes. Mr. Honda watched her, his eyes tracking the movement of her clothing as Jane got to work on shedding them.

As she slipped her gown off, Mr. Honda's face had warmed again.

"Jane…" he clamped a hand over his face as if denying his own role in this. Jane ignored his play at blindness and continued to undress.

Again, the corset was a bit of an issue. 

Jane ripped and tugged at the laces and hooks in her frustration, yanking until the damned thing loosened finally. 

"What?" she stepped forward in just her chemise and socks. "Why are you so fragile all of a sudden? You've seen countless women like this. You've seen _me_ like this before."

She pulled her chemise over her head and let it spill to the floor. Her thick wool socks went up to just above her knees. They were the only garment she still had on. 

"Look at me," she demanded. "You have no right to pretend like you have a single shred of innocence on this matter left to preserve."

Even like this, her skin was still on fire. She was acutely aware of a wetness between her legs. She wondered how Mr. Honda would've reacted if she were to start touching herself then and there.

Mr. Honda stayed clammed up for a few more moments, his chest rising and falling steeply. Then slowly, he pulled his hand away. His eyes glared fiercely into Jane's before dropping over her body, lingering first at her breasts and then at her hips. 

A restless sort of energy had started in Jane, fueled by the momentum of her anger. She clenched emptily; her blood was already pumping, now if only she had somewhere to put this pent-up tension.

She leaned in real close, bending over so that she was crouched over him, her fingers just barely grazing the top of the trunk. The tough was feather-light; she used it to anchor herself just above Mr. Honda to keep herself from falling into him. 

Her forehead was inches from his, her breasts hanging in front of his face. 

His hand reached up tentatively to graze her hip. Jane leaned into the touch but said nothing; her body could respond well enough to his fingers' skill. She didn't trust her mouth not to scorch the man who decided where he applied that skill, though.

Her other hand went to his thigh. Mr. Honda was surprisingly steady under her.

"It seems you're about as innocent as I am," he murmured.

She tilted her head, leveling her eyes just above his – he couldn't avoid her gaze, but he still had to look up.

"I never claimed otherwise." Her nose was brushing against his now. From this vantage point, she felt like the executioner holding an ax at the ready; Mr. Honda was entirely at her mercy this way. 

Then she leaned in and kissed him. Mr. Honda tilted his face up as if he'd been waiting to catch the little gesture.

A soft groan left him. Jane's mouth was still a little clumsy in her lack of experience, but Mr. Honda was clumsy too, the dissonance in their encounter stringing him out. Their lips came together and broke apart, waves crashing to shore. It was a game of strategy – forward, attack, retreat, but that was just the thing; they always came back. There was quiet violence to how their met.

Everyone's eyes always went there, to where the drama was. Mr. Honda was no different; his attention was up where their lips were at, his head up hiding above the clouds, floating in the stratosphere. That's why he didn't even notice as Jane's hand stroked up his thigh, drawing a blazing line to his crotch, where a hard bulge was growing.

He gasped as she palmed his erection.

" _Oh_ —" 

Jane liked the startled little sound. She meshed her lips to his in her haste to swallow the noise down. Mr. Honda's grasp on her hip tightened, and he dragged her body down closer to him.

The only resistance was her insistence that she keep enough room to handle him as she so chose. She was straddling his legs clumsily, one leg still extended to support her as the other knee took to the trunk. 

Between their bodies, Jane got to work on his trousers, undoing the buttons. 

Mr. Honda helped her as they lowered the garment over his hips, and his cock sprang free. Jane broke the kiss just to watch as she grasped his cock, wrapping her fingers tight around his girth.

Then, Mr. Honda was dragging her back in for a kiss, his lips twitching and a soft gasp leaving him as she started slinking her closed fist along his length.

" _Ah_ , J-Jane, I didn't—" A few clumsy kisses cut him off. "This is…unexpected."

"It is," she breathed, moving her hand a little bit faster. "I thought you were my friend."

She looked down, watching the red tip of his cock twitch as she pumped it in her hand. Mr. Honda's hands had found her face and stroked softly.

It was different from how Francis touched her. Francis was always so confident with his movements like he knew long before he touched someone that he'd earned the right to. Mr. Honda felt uncertain, his fingers grazing the flats of her cheeks like he was admiring priceless crystal.

"I am." 

She gave him a warning squeeze and felt how his breath caught in his chest.

"I _wanted_ to be."

She pumped him, letting him pull her into a kiss. She parted her lips, and when he slipped his tongue in, she moaned. 

Jane was still angry, hurt, betrayed. Still, something was satisfying about feeling him inside her, of feeling the rawness of him and taking it in. 

Like maybe some semblance of honesty was still possible between them. It soothed where their trust had been abraded.

She wanted to feel more. 

Seeing the picture had drained her in a way she couldn't remember feeling at any point before. She was tired of feeling so empty like her body was a hallowed, haunted place.

She needed to feel whole again.

Her hand stilled at him, and Mr. Honda made a strangled noise.

"What—"

"I want more." Jane rose from off of him. "I need more from you."

Mr. Honda stared at her, gape-mouthed as she went to where his bed was. His eyes glassy and uncomprehending, he watched the sashay of her hips until Jane's voice snapped him out of it.

" _Kiku!_ "

Then he scrambled to his feet and hastily made his way over to where Jane was waiting, naked in his bed, his cock bobbing with his hurried movements. 

On his way over, his foot nearly caught one of the legs of his easel. It tottered for a moment, uncertainly. Kiku didn't even spare it a glance.

Watching as Kiku approached her, Jane stretched out luxuriously along his bed. The artist paused, just above her, one knee on the bed, one hand palming his erection.

His gaze shifted tenderly over her, and Jane thought he looked a bit like he was studying a subject to draw. 

"Roll over on your stomach."

Well, she hadn't been expecting that. Jane's eyebrows raised. 

"Roll over?"

"Trust me," Kiku caught himself, and his cheeks flushed. "As much as you can right now. I'll not make you feel anything other than good ever again."

Jane rolled over onto her stomach, her legs still stretched out. 

She could feel the heat rolling off of Kiku's body and the mattress divot beneath her as he hovered above her.

His hand found her hip again and nudged it towards him.

"Can you raise your hips a little?"

Jane obeyed.

"Perfect."

Jane flushed at the compliment. 

Kiku lowered himself over her, careful not to put his weight down on her.

"Is this okay?"

"Mm," her stomach flipped as she felt his cock bump up against the swell of her ass, and she twitched.

"You're cute," he said softly. His hand slunk down to palm one ass cheek. "Soft too."

Jane's fingers tensed in his blankets, and she resisted the urge to cower into the thick fabric.

"Thank you."

She could feel the insides of Kiku's legs graze the outsides of her thighs as he straddled her.

"I'm going to…go in now, okay?"

He pressed the engorged tip of his cock at her entrance from this strange position. The way Jane was laying, she could feel his cock along the underside of her ass as he entered her, as well as along the upper backs of her thighs.

Her inner walls parted for him, soaked but not prepared.

" _Oh_!—" 

Jane hadn't been expecting the burn that came as he stretched her.

Kiku paused.

"Are you alright?"

It took Jane a few moments to find her words; she was mesmerized with the steady heat of him inside of her so far. The thick stiffness of him seemed to pulse inside of her. She squeezed experimentally and felt Kiku tense above her.

"I am – you're just…big."

There was a pause.

"Ah, I see." 

Kiku sounded a little embarrassed.

He began pushing in again, and Jane felt her own breathing catch. It was like she was afraid that even the slightest movement would have her clamping down around him to intensify the pain.

"Relax," he breathed, his voice terse. 

Jane could feel his breath at her ear, and out of her peripheral vision, she noticed his hands pressed into the duvet.

"I am."

A breathy chuckle left Kiku.

"You're not. I can see how tense you are here."

She felt a soft, brief touch at her back, between and a few inches below her shoulder blades.

"Relax," he insisted. "I'll fit easier that way."

Jane tried. She released the breath she was holding in a shuddered little gasp and tried from there to take air slowly.

Kiku continued to press into her, his cock sliding a little easier. 

The burn was beginning to fade.

"Better?"

"A little."

She felt another one of those soft, brief touches at her shoulder blade once more and recognized it as his lips.

"You're doing well."

He inched into her, and when Jane felt the warm heat of his skin at her ass, she knew he was all the way in.

Kiku waited; Jane figured he was waiting for her.

"You can move."

"Are you certain?"

She jostled her hips slightly, and Kiku gasped.

" _Please_ move."

Kiku started moving, rocking his hips against her. The drag of his cock inside of her was deliriously good. Even more so with the tightness of the fit. Pulling out to the tip, Kiku snapped his hips into her, his hips slapping against her ass.

The friction was vicious in how it fed the heat inside. Already Jane felt it growing, expanding like a balloon. God, he was so _hard_ , so _stiff_ inside of her. Even now that it didn't hurt, she felt her walls part again and again for him, like his cock was forcing a stretch from her each time. 

"God, you really are so _big_ ," she sighed, her arms trembling with the tension of keeping her body propped up. 

She thought she could make out a strained laugh from the man on top of her.

"Are you sure you're not just tight?"

She squeezed around him as if in retort, and Kiku grunted. Jane tightened her grip on the duvet, her fingers balling the rich fabric as she got ready to weather their fuck.

Kiku moving into her, his pace picking up from the steady one he'd initially set. He traded depth for speed, and Jane felt his swollen tip rub at a particular spot inside of her again and again. Her hips jolted each time he passed over this spot, and she found herself rocking back against him as if trying to strengthen the impact.

She felt awash in sweat. Jane tried to keep her breathing steady, but her body was moving a million miles an hour and more than ready to leave her behind in pursuit of her release.

" _Oh_! You're—" 

Jane's arms gave a vicious shake and then gave out under her. Kiku never skipped a beat though, he followed, keeping his cock buried in her, never faltering as he thrust into her.

One hand went to her hip, guiding her hips back against his as he took her with full force. His hips slapped against her ass, and Jane's body was beginning to ache. The friction against her walls was white-hot and fed into the fever in the rest of her body.

Kiku's other hand found a grip in her hair, pulling hard, just short of painful. Jane let out a little yelp, and at once, the grip slackened.

"Did I hurt you?"

His voice was thin and low in her ear.

"A little."

Jane's eyes were stinging too now. She hated the little admission. It reminded her of how awful she'd felt coming in earlier.

Something soft grazed her hair, and she barely caught the apology as it slipped past her ear.

She clenched around him hard, and her stomach flipped. Each muscle in her body felt like it was pulling tight, one by one, preparing for something. Jane thought she knew what.

"K-Kiku, I think…"

"Mm, you're close?"

Jane tried hard to focus on her body's sensations, blood rushing, and heart thudding. She felt a little light-headed.

Before she could answer him, she tightened around him again. Then once more, really hard, which then devolved into a series of frantic spasms.

"Ah!—" she cried out, her body tensing really big. 

Kiku pumped into her harder, his grasp pinching tight, nails digging into her skin as he fucked her through her release.

"Good. Good girl."

He thrust roughly into her wet, swollen cunt as she pulsated greedily around him, wanting to keep his thick heat for herself.

After a moment or two, she thought she felt him twitch inside of her.

"I think… I'm close too."

Jane's stomach swooped again; that was good. The drag of him was starting to hurt a little; her nerves fried as her body came down from her orgasm, feeling their closeness like it was magnified.

"Should I…?"

"Let go," said Jane, her face half-buried by the comforter. Her body felt heavy; she was ready to let go herself. 

Kiku grunted and thrust three more times, his pace slowing before he hilted himself inside of her, his body drawing tight.

"Mm. Fuck."

His voice was a low growl, and Jane felt heat spread where he was buried. 

Jane squeezed around him; she loved the feeling of a man's spend inside of her. She liked feeling his softening cock and his seed dribble out. God, she was convinced almost nothing was better.

Kiku's weight above her intensified as he slumped over her, his face in the crook of her neck, his breath tickling her skin.

She gave him one last squeeze, and Kiku groaned, stirring slightly over her.

" _Ah_!—Jane."

Jane didn't answer. Her eyes were already shut, her body contented and warmed under the weight of Kiku and the lull of his breathing. The room sweated sex, charcoal, and dust. Neither could bring themselves to care.


	34. Chapter 34

"Jane?" 

She heard Kiku's voice after a couple of minutes. By now, her skin was starting to cool. She wished they were lying under the blanket instead of sprawled out on top of it. Unable to burrow her way down to warmth, she rolled over on her side and drew into herself, curling into a ball.

"Jane," Kiku asked again, and she felt something warm curl around her. 

His arm, she thought. 

The warmth and weight were of some comfort, at least. There was a rustling sound and then a firmness at her back where Kiku had shifted closer. That also helped.

"I'm sorry for not telling you." His voice was so soft; it was practically a whisper. How strange, she thought, how bald whispers looked in daylight. 

Almost everything seemed softer in the safety of the dark.

"Maybe you're right," he continued. "Maybe I didn't think I was mistaken. Not really. Maybe it was just easier to believe that because it was scary to see yet _another_ person connected to this…this _thing_ that obviously wasn't right."

His words fell loosely around her, and then suddenly, it was like two ends of one messy knot were pulled, and she was caught twisted in the center. 

She propped her head up and looked at him.

"Is there someone else? Who?"

Kiku's brow furrowed.

"Mr. Oxenstierna, the carpenter. I used to see his sister at the Red Room. Didn't you know?"

"No."

"I figured you had, seeing as how you seemed to be looking into it."

The woman in the picture and the placement of said picture in the commission from Mr. Oxenstierna -- Jane's heart was pounding; things were starting to make sense.

Kiku looked like he was going to say something else when suddenly a voice could be heard.

"Kiku! Are you in? Jutinka said that Jane was here too, I—"

Jane had scrambled up, grabbing the top of the duvet and yanking it up to cover herself the best she could Kiku's eyes were wide and frantic like a scared animal's. He'd just managed to tuck himself back into his trousers as the door swung open and Feliciano appeared.

For a moment, the room was utterly still and silent. It could have been a wood print recounting possibly the most humiliating day in anyone's life. Jane swore she counted the seconds before she saw movement and activity flicker behind Feliciano's blank stare.

Kiku meanwhile looked from Jane to Feliciano and then back to Jane again, his face so flushed, he looked like he'd come down with a fever.

"Feliciano! You really ought to knock!" His voice had heightened in register in his distress. He half-stepped to the side in an attempt to block Jane from view.

"Why would I start knocking now?" Feliciano quirked a brow, seeming both unfazed and unapologetic. 

He gave Kiku a generous once over, and Jane strongly suspected that Feliciano wished he'd arrived just a few moments earlier.

"Good God, why are you here anyway?" the artist asked, his hands retying his necktie in a few sharp tugs.

Feliciano ignored the question, turning to Jane as she crept past Kiku to snag her clothing off the floor.

She'd dragged the blanket off Kiku's bed in an attempt to keep covered. 

Now both men watched her.

She caught their eyes as she bent to pick up her chemise in one hand.

"I don't require an audience for this if that's what you're concerned about," she snapped. 

Kiku was quick to avert his eyes, but Feliciano grinned, crossing his arms across his chest.

"If not an audience, then what about some help?"

"Absolutely _not_." 

Feliciano watched the woman grapple with getting dressed, her clumsy attempt at keeping the blanket over herself while she tugged on her chemise, failing before it ever really started.

Eventually, she was forced to forfeit the blanket entirely in favor of dressing in her chemise. From there, she grabbed her corset and shrugged that on to – as always, the corset was a problem.

Feliciano watched her struggle uselessly with the laces and hooks for a few moments, the reach behind awkward and futile, before going to her. He took the ribbons from her hands and wasn't spared a sour look, but he ignored this too – Jane knew well enough she couldn't do it on her own, and of course, she couldn't call the maid in to help her.

Feliciano's, again, very skilled fingers, re-laced the corset with an easy rhythm that made it seem as if he'd done so before. Right as Jane was about to remark on this, he asked her to get to her feet.

"I apologize for the discomfort I'm about to cause you."

Feliciano pressed a quick kiss behind her ear. Then, before she could inquire further about what he meant, he was tugging the corset, tight, tight, tight, around the barrel of her abdomen.

The air was forced from Jane's lungs in a sharp gasp. She stumbled forward, finding the nearby support beam to hold herself upright as Feliciano finished cutting her figure.

Tug and adjust, tug and adjust; Jane was about to beg Feliciano to let her go, for Chrissake, when finally, he released her, instead grabbing her by the elbow. He turned her around to face him. His gaze swept over her, and he grinned.

" _Bella_!" 

His hands made a festive motion as if he were presenting her.

Jane grimaced her cheeks heating. She could still feel Kiku's seed meshing wetly against her sex, and the sheen of sweat at her skin felt clammy.

"Ah, well, perhaps Mr. Honda has a looking glass I could borrow, just to make sure…"

Kiku directed her to a small, sad dresser by his bed, where a little, dusty mirror sat atop. Jane peered at her reflection. Even through the coat of dust, her eyes seemed too bright, her hair was slightly mussed, and her face was flushed, skin shining. She looked like she'd tried to outrun the wind.

Feliciano came up behind her and gave her shoulders a squeeze. Plucking a flower from the vase on the dresser, he placed the bloom by her ear, so it held back a loose wisp of hair.

"See? You're glowing."

She still felt a bit out of sorts, and despite the intimacy, they'd achieved in his bed, Jane still had very little she wanted to do with Mr. Honda, including chat. Feliciano's warmth was infectious, though, and so she set the mirror down and turned to him rather than going to take her hasty leave as initially planned.

"Ah, Feliciano, did you come here with news?"

Excitement lit up the man's face at the reminder.

"That's right! I can't believe it slipped my mind! I did, and such exciting news indeed!"

Kiku and Jane looked to the man expectantly, who was withholding his announcement for just a moment longer, in the hopes that it would build their excitement as well.

Feliciano looked between his two friends. When he was quite sure he couldn't squeeze even an ounce more of enthusiasm from either of them, he spoke again.

"There is to be a ball," he declared. "And the Edelstein's will be hosting it! I came here to invite Kiku, but Jane, while you're here, I'll invite you as well, rather than sending for you at Yeatlor. Remember – it's a masquerade, so you must wear a mask. Be sure to let Mr. Bonnefoy know too."

"A masquerade? How medieval," mumbled Mr. Honda. 

"How _fun_ ," said Feliciano matter-of-factly.

Jane sat as if the news had fallen to her lap like a fish. With all she'd been preoccupied with, the prospects of going to something like a ball seemed almost...juvenile. A themed party only exacerbated this feeling.

"Are we expected to wear…gowns from that time as well?"

"You can if you'd like. Wear whatever you feel the best in!" Feliciano grinned broadly before his expression suddenly grew serious. "But make sure it's formal, and you really mustn't forget the mask!"

"It sounds a bit like a costume party."

Feliciano's face fell as if he'd massively overshot the excitement of such an endeavor.

"Perhaps, but it does sound fun, all the same, right? And the Edelsteins are hosting, which means I'll be there, also sort of hosting." He looked between his friends, suddenly uncertain. "You'll both attend, won't you?"

Jane grabbed Feliciano's hands between hers and smiled warmly.

"Of course, we will."

Mr. Honda was quiet and didn't bother trying to differentiate his own attendance status from Jane's. Regardless of what had just transpired between them, the fact remained that he owed a debt. Where Jane pointed, he'd appear – at least for the time being.

This point remained unspoken and well understood between the two of them. 

In fact, by this very notion, Jane was reminded of another place she had in mind for Mr. Honda to go.

-

Having established Mr. Honda's presence at the original Red Room, Jane's next step was to coordinate this information with Alfred. Mr. Honda agreed readily and accompanied her back to the village that evening, where she hoped to find Alfred and Mr. Williams in the Red Room. Lacking the same attire from the night before, Jane worried about being let in, remembering Alfred's remark about a dress code. 

As it turned out, though, the dress code was something that changed quite frequently;. In contrast, the previous night, people had been dressed in grubby bar attire. Tonight, however, the room erupted in bright reds, dark maroons, and blacks that winked and promised not to utter a word of the debauchery it witnessed to the daylight and those who inhabited it.

In their regular attire, Mr. Honda and Jane stuck out like sore thumbs. After standing awkwardly by the entrance for some time, cringing away from the tight press of scantily-clad bodies and no doubt annoying the lady sent to man the front area, their presence was enough to draw the investigator out of the woodwork.

"Jane," Alfred said as he picked his way out of the crowd, Mr. Williams following closely in his wake. Both of them were dressed in strange attire: frocks with dark shirts that hung loosely at them, they barely stood in as shirts at all. Both wore layers of fine, gold jewelry and several rings on each hand. 

Jane realized she'd never seen Alfred wear jewelry before. 

A split second later, Alfred seemed to notice Mr. Honda's presence. 

"And you as well, Mr. Honda?" 

Alfred turned back to Jane, his face drawing taut with vigilance.

"Why did you bring him here?"

Jane was about to answer but noticed the woman nearby lingering at the fringe of their little group, looking busy. Upon closer inspection, she wasn't really doing anything besides studying the toes of her heeled boots.

"How about we go outside and talk there," advised Jane, sending Alfred a meaningful look.

Always one for discretion, Alfred led the way outside, to where Mr. Williams and Jane had met Mr. Zwingli the night before. Of course, the scene was missing his firmly etched glower now.

"I've included Mr. Honda in our search as I can confirm his presence at the original Red Room."

Both Alfred's and Mr. Williams' gazes snapped to Mr. Honda with varying degrees of heat.

"Presence? What _presence_?"

Jane looked at Mr. Honda. Mr. Honda looked at the ground.

"I…" Jane took a deep breath and felt all the heavier after the fact. 

"Mr. Honda is connected to the Red Room through a picture. A _series_ of pictures he was commissioned to draw of the women who worked there."

Alfred looked interested now while Mr. Williams' face remained unreadable.

"And how did you come to uncover that?"

"One of those pictures was of me."

If Alfred was surprised, he didn't show it. His hand came up to rub pensively at his jaw, something Jane was growing more accustomed to seeing on him.

He turned to Mr. Honda. 

"Then, what else can you tell us about the establishment."

Mr. Honda looked up, knowing Alfred was speaking to him, and yet, he didn't answer right away. In fact, his attention didn't seem to be on Alfred or Jane at all; rather, his gaze was fixed on Mr. Williams, whose eyes were fixed right back.

Jane didn't quite understand what was happening at first until she recalled the conversation she and Francis had had about Mr. Williams. 

Ah – the rumors. 

Mr. Honda had lived in the valley long enough now to have become thoroughly acquainted with them.

She didn't know why Mr. Honda looked so fretful though, it's not as if _he_ were married to Mr. Williams.

"Mr. Honda," Mr. Williams tilted his head politely. "It's nice to meet you. Similar to Jane, I have some personal connections to this investigation. 

I daresay we'll be seeing a lot of each other as a result, and I appreciate your… _expertise_ on the matter."

At the word 'expertise,' Mr. Honda's face flushed.

"Ah, yes," he cleared his throat. "That's very well of you to say, Mr.—" his voice broke off, and he let out a little cough. "Mr. Williams."

"Mr. Honda, did you ever see who your client was? Or who commissioned you?" Alfred cut in, wanting to steer the conversation back to the more pressing matter at hand.

"I didn't."

Jane cut in here.

"He says they covered his head – like the doctor claimed happen to him."

Alfred frowned.

"That's right."

Mr. Williams turned to Jane.

"What about the man you saw the other night? What if he's here again?"

Alfred gave her a sharp look.

"What man would that be?"

Jane ignored him.

"He could be, I suppose. He seemed…comfortable in the Red Room. Perhaps he's a regular."

"Then, we should go in and at least check, right?"

"That's right."

The group surveyed each other quietly as if inspecting for any objections. 

There were none.

On their second try at pushing into this strange upside-down world, where people kept their good sensibilities and decency hidden away like a dirty, little secret, Jane noticed more than her first time. No longer transfixed by the packed churn of people, dense like cold waters and twice as savage, she looked to the stage. 

The previous night, women flashed the audience, playful, if not a bit crude. Tonight was limber bodies, contorting and folding in ways Jane had never seen before in real life. From the way their hair was slicked against their skulls, their faces painted in large, ghastly caricature-esque features, in tight costumes they wore like a second skin, it was impossible to tell if the performers were men or women, although the club's history of… _entertainment_ , suggested to Jane that if the performers were men, that this wasn't a loudly voiced fact.

Tucked in a corner, by the bar, was a woman at the only clothed table. 

She looked to be spreading cards across the top of it, although if she were playing a game, it wasn't one Jane recognized.

The patron sitting at the table with her was leaning in, hanging onto her every word – Jane knew whatever the woman said must've been interesting. However, she obviously couldn't hear it herself.

Jane caught Mr. Honda's eye as Alfred, and Mr. Williams led them into the pack of people, jeering and drinking, bodies turning, limbs bumping. It felt tighter today. More crowded. Jane wondered if there was enough air to go around. Her hand found what she thought was Mr. Honda's sleeve, and she thought for a moment that she felt him grab back.

Her other hand reached forward. She found the loop at the waist of Alfred's frock, dead set on not losing one of the only people who could lead her and Mr. Honda through this madhouse effectively.

She tried hard to bring the faces around her into focus, but it was hard. They were dressed in a strange red light that was impassioned by the deep tint of the wallpaper. Still, she remained hopeful that she might happen upon the man from the night prior as she did then. 

She never did see him, though; no one with even a passable resemblance passed her by. 

At the next break in the crowd, Alfred and Mr. Williams came to a stop where another doorway led out of the main room and deeper into the building's bowels. 

Jane found herself needing to catch her breath.

Alfred leaned in close, his arms sweeping to bring them inward, so they could hear his voice.

"The office should be just up the stairs through the way there – I think it's time we searched it to see exactly who owns it."

Mr. Williams' blonde head bobbed in a nod, dyed a poppy-red from the eerie red candle lights shining through dyed linens, like giant cloth lanterns.

"I agree."

Jane nodded too, eager at the prospects of more answers.

"Me as well."

This time, the lone objection made itself heard.

Mr. Honda stepped back, breaking their tight little circle, his expression one of bewilderment.

"Absolutely not! That's breaking and entering."

"And we're doing so to investigate a series of potential murders."

Alfred was used to getting what he needed and wanted, Jane thought, but Mr. Honda still wouldn't back down.

" _Potential_ murders. If no murders, in fact, have taken place, then again, we're just breaking and entering."

"So, what? We go up there, and you're going to sound the alarm?" Alfred crossed his arms challengingly.

"No, I won't, but I'm certainly not going to commit a crime just because you think someone else might've committed a worse one." Mr. Honda crossed his arms back. 

The two men glared silently at each other for a couple of moments, neither one budging on either account.

"Then, the matter is settled," chimed in Mr. Williams. "Alfred and I can go check the office; Mr. Honda and Miss Doe can stay here and stall whoever might be coming up the way before we get done." He looked at Mr. Honda. "Does that suit you?"

Mr. Honda still looked displeased.

"I suppose it does."

"Good," Mr. Williams lingered as Alfred disappeared through the doorway to head up the stairs to the Red Room's quiet second level. "Don't let anyone come up until we've already come back – do whatever you have to."

Jane nodded, the gravity of Mr. Williams' expression renewing the solemn trepidation she felt in wading deeper into this pool, where the runoff of the valley's dark secrets seemed to collect. 

The matter of the Red Room might've been all there was; maybe the pool was exactly that shallow. Then again, maybe it was just the tip of the iceberg; it was impossible to tell when you couldn't see the bottom.

"We understand," she looked at Mr. Honda. "Whatever we have to do."

Mr. Williams nodded once more, and then he was stepping through the doorway to round the corner as well, following Alfred up the stairs. Jane couldn't help but wonder if everything would be different once they returned.


End file.
